Every Sunday.
♪ Some people call Jim the shit owner yeah
Some call him the gangster of frack
Some people call him Mr. Burns
WEE WOO
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.
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.
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.
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.
No better reason to temporarily halt hermitage than to celebrate this motherfucker turning thirty.
See you in the next d6 months, unfortunately. People, man.
GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR FUCKING GAME ALREADY.
Drunken slaughter ought to carry a shorter prison term than wallstreeting.
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.
METAL.
Fuck you dumb public
fuck you stupid work
fuck you humidity
now that's fuckin' poetry
hell no says you
well fuck you too.
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
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.
Jesus H. Cthulhu, I hate summer. Fuck this fucking season.
Greatest DM (death metal or dungeon master, listener's choice) album ever?
Don't sleep on Altars. Seriously, don't, or you'll wake up the not-that-secret ingredient of a pentagram stew. Mmmm, stew. Bunch of crazy crap happening in meat world, but fancy gizmodic contraptions aside, new shit same as the old shit YEEEAAAARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH. 'twas vaguely Daltrynstic no? though I'm more skilled in the Axl arts, not the paparazzo face punching bit 'cause I love you all like Ozzy. Reference your own frontdude/chick for three easy installments of 39.95, please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery.
Been cleaning [read: attempting to maybe possibly try] out the house 'cause like every firstworlder, got too much garbage even for Oscar, and came across a shot of the fam post-arrival of the alien known to interwebzians as Offspring the Elder, mom classy in a Justice tee, yours truly nattily clad in a Seasons, both sporting giant glasses which was, along with onions on the belt, the style at the time.
No, I didn't wallow in any of that stupid "woe to you o earth and sea what a world what a world we leaveth with thee" shit because are you fucking kidding me, life expectancy and an end to feudalism aside though I hear that's making a comeback in select markets, see above.
In the past, you couldn't ignore what was stabbing you.
Thanks to cheap anesthetic hawked by the real Satanic cult, now you can, but you're still gonna end up as someone's meal.
Look man, adrenaline junkie shtick's fine for vapid hacks surfing vapor trails to nowhere. Me, I dig a grimy rut slicked with oily mope. It's right there, points the skeletal digit, hand hallucinating over a shaky ticker, ears flapping as yours truly breezes wearily through discarded puns on the band's name and/or the Cretaceous. Eureka, that signifies old, and lo, a couple more greys than yesterday.
So what? As we learned last time out, "maturing" is for musical halfwits, but aging fully graced, a magically different ballad. Once upon an Angus: "I'm sick and tired of people saying that we put out 11 albums that sound
exactly the same. In fact, we've put out 12 albums that sound exactly
the same." Here, a stretch, but it's new Alice, they've been at it since before my kids were born and so know what the fuck they're doing, the unbreakable Motörhead of mood metal.
Don't get naming the entire album after the sole "topical" track, The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here for the under-a-rock adjacent, but everyone's brainwaves are different. Song's certainly eerie, though, though Hung on a Hook, whoa, Layne or no, see despondency through a glass, darkly. Funny how Chuck Woolery infernos used to blast open proceedings, but a deep (ten of twelve tracks clocking over five minutes) Hollow has good n' plenty of a sticky, bendy gait, defiantly smacking away one of the album's few flaws, namely that a speedy, let 'er rip once in a full moon would be keen.
Contradicting myself, brick wall drones are wheelhoused, but second single Stone hasn't stuck yet (neither had Lab Monkey, which I already like thrice more than Monday), but the Jar of Flies-worthy Voices, lordy, 'tis No Excuses horizontal harmonizing with a daydream haze, birthing their love child. Opposite, 99 44/100% pure facelifting with the chromatic, rambling, ergo self-titled-ish Phantom Limb, and har ye har ye, new guy getting more turns at the mic this time around beyond righteous and mandatory two-parts.
We all wanna tap our foot, crack open our skulls on the stage, feast on the goo inside. It's why pop craft welded to brontosaurs riffs makes overcast barbs like Low Ceiling soar, whilst Scalpel is cut primarily out of the former, a chorus of pure fucking ear candy. Being either moody or cranky or both, this stomper of a record, peppered with singer-songwriter longhair jams once strung out so lovely in Cantrell's solo oeuvre, perhaps less black and more grey, riffs that once lopped off bloody chunks now grinding gobs of weathered flesh instead, still guards the sound of a cold, rainy day. Like today! (sadly, not that cold) Brings an invisible ink smile to my face.
No album cuts cuz Metal Blade's gang of Patrick Batemans says nein.
Animals are blissfully ignorant of our gold star acid banging till we leave a pile of garbage on their house 'cause we if we know anything we know shit, and in the sun that motherfucker smells like civilization.
No wonder stray folks hither and tither self-medicate, murder.
The previous platter drunk from grindhouse Hammer teats. This latest treat is rotten Spahn ranch dressing, leaves ripped from mellow yellowing, vomit-pocked copies of Helter Skelter and Mindfuckers stashed under the seat with empty wrappers, undies. Opener Mt. Abraxas, contra the last first strike, climbs molasses slow, sand dune stumbling for a couple of warm beers and pocket change 'fore channeling God, i.e. Sabbath circa 1970-75, hypnosis wielded like a drugged wizard unable to just say nyet. And we've all taken turns as that Mind Crawler hammer, if not convincing someone to go all Tex Watson then certainly to fuck with the psyche of the ones we love, a word redefinable by the happy hour. Celebrate good times come on.
Jonesing for a blood lusty fix, Poison Apple b/w Under the Spell are a pair of Buck Blackmore rockin' holes in the sky metal pin punched by Desert Ceremony's active Iommi octaves oh so mesmer, and dig Uncle's eerie un/intentional Robin Zander Evil Love tribute complete with T.V. Eye submission and name-drop shout-out over Maiden/Priest axework.
The ante's high in Death Valley Blues, Marshall stack psych hiding from piggish sobriety along with the rest of the worded weirdos, anxiously kicking the on sale! today only! bobblehead down the road with the droning, lysergic Follow the Leader. The burnt So Cal concrete and dusty Chevy van monochrome of Valley of the Dolls is at first tab the only (slight) misfire, but patience, grasshopper. At last, at last, our crazy kids land a gig doing the Devil's Work, the knife blade broken garage rock endgame that, like every idea good bad or ugly, stutters to nothing under the bleaching sun.
This stack of oh yeah ain't a carbon copy of their oldies, yet there's blissfully none of the lobotomy promoted by onanist music critics,"maturing" -- c'est-à-dire, agitprop praising the sacrifice of The Holy Riff for "atmosphere" -- just one more thorny hike through one more nuclear-baked shithole. Play that funky music white boy and sing how every wasteland, whether gated Swiss bank silicone, upper lower middle class timebomb, or dumpster diver felony, is run by variations on a nutjob, as it was, is, and always shall be. Amen.
