teacher bangs a boyoboyoboy man!

if i had to pinpoint a beginning, i'd say it probably started during those tender, bittersweet middle school years. no scratch that. it did start during those tender, bittersweet middle school years. with Ms. Kramer. holy shit mang! fucking bomb diggity! like 5'1", blonde, hardbody ya know? 7th grade spanish was always a treat. she would bend over at least four times a class, like she knew that's what we wanted to see.

i remember during track practice, she used to do the watermelon stretch (think "ass out, legs up, show me that you wanna fuck!"), in those bright red univ. of indiana short shorts. yeah. what's worse is that she was really into black guys. ahhhhh! haha. fuckemos! she ended up marrying a prominent black baltimore politician. naw fuck that son! what's he got that i didn't have at 12 years old?!

comin up in the game, i always wanted to fuck a teacher. Ms. Kramer kinda got the ball rolling when she wore this really slutty micro mini for halloween. still not sure what her costume was meant to be exactly. streetwalker? poss not def.

sure. it's normal for hormone-addled youngbloods to be into the notion of poking on a prof. if the piece, ahem, the instructor is fly enough, any adolescent's gonna ponder the possibility. but i kinda feel my urge was stratospheric. abnormal. admittedly, balling at the collegiate level has thoroughly diminished the appeal. the disparity in student/teacher sensibilities just isn't there, and plus i'm meeting birds at the boozer who are my age who are teachers. where the fuck's the fun in that?

but back in the "day?" oh snap son! it was on like megatron out that bitch!

even today, when i hear stories of punkass 14 year olds smashing gorgeous, stripper-hot 30-something teachers
(Debbie Lefave anyone?), i get more than a little bitter. in fact, i can honestly say that i hate on the kid who fucked Debbie Lefave (repeatedly) more than i hate on say, Justin Timberlake for banging out Britney/Diaz/Scarlett/Beal/etc. for reals. scout's fucken honor.

but looking back, the environment just wasn't right. honestly. north baltimore, hyperconservative, pro-norm private school. not that big on taboos. for some insight, peep the webpage HERE.

but wait. further examination reveals a double standard looming large within those brick walls, creeping about those labyrinthine halls. because you see, at this straight-laced, high-brow, all-boys institution, while young boys weren't succumbing to the seductive throes of buxom cougars, there was certainly a whole lotta shakin goin' on on the other end of things. get me? in four years of high school (and one of middle school), my class saw five different deans of students. a big fucking deal in this realm. change is bad they'll say.

most notable among the changes were the expulsions of Mssrs. Stewart and Hincker. while Hincker left under murky circumstances (he may or may not have fucked a female student while abroad; she was 19 and a complete slut, so whatev), stewart def breached the realm of "murky." his shit was straight up felonious kid!

basically, this asshole began frequenting teen chat rooms online, growing friendly with a 14 year old we'll call Jenny. friendly enough in fact that he sent Jenny a naked picture of himself, with the head cropped off. when Jenny asked why she couldn't see his face, Stewart replied, "a teacher has to be careful."

careful indeed. but of course, this being the tragicomedy that it is, things go awry. well awry.

Jenny is really a fucking fed decoy. so when, after months of lewd convos and shady picture exchanges, an eager "Jenny" suggests that they meet at the local MegaMall, Stewart bites on the playaction fake. like a late-round draft pick rookie linebacker.

gotcha bitch!

when he gets there to meet the underaged object of his online affection, he finds not a nubile young twink but a cavalcade of barrel-chested federal agents in cute little matching black jackets ready to fuck his world up.

two years in prison. good show jeffrey.

get at me dog!

last week, Washington Redskins running back Clinton Portis, in response to the whole Michael Vick dogfighting ring bruhaha, stated that Vick did nothing wrong despite the allegations of violating a federal law. Portis: "I think there's bigger issues in the world and in life than what Michael Vick's doing on his own property... Hunting is legal."

of course the mainstream media, including ESPN, got their bloomers in a bunch over Portis's rather glib response. what the fuck did they expect? this is a guy who goes to press conferences dressed like Blackula. he's an absolute character, and quite frankly, the League needs more like him.

i admit that i'm inclined to agree with Portis, on the grounds that a. i have nothing but contempt for the neoclassical "City on the Hill" and their "lawz," and b. i was thissss close to getting in on the dog fighting circuit.

my cousin and i went in together on a venture to start breeding pitbulls some years ago, but he bounced for the navy before things really got to jumpin. as we're both huge scumbags, i'm pretty sure that dog breeding would've devolved into dog fighting eventually. his basement was fucking huge.

but one thing kinda makes me hesitant to concur with Mr. Portis. a news story from these parts from a few years ago. West Baltimore. an escaped fighting dog, desperately hungry, raging out on account of years of abuse and neglect, bites a guy's balls off. FUCK! the story stuck with me enough to make me think twice about the threat to public safety that is this breed. it also inspired my as yet untitled short story, a heartwarming tale about a wayward cougar, an unfortunate suburban soul, and an experimental bionic vagina. you can read it HERE if you're really that fucking needy.

and as for the YouTube video, i mean come on?! fucken ay! DMX, 1998? before hip-hop/rap was admitted to the convalescent home? i remember my introduction to DarkMan X. summer of that year. conned my mom into buying a SOURCE Magazine, even though my rents didn't like me listening to/reading about "offensive" music. first 20 pages of the mag are ads of course, and right there near the end of the parade, fucking full page blast of beastness.

camera's looking up at him, so as to make him into some sort of projects-born Leviathan. holding two enormous pitbulls on taut chain-leashes with 1.5 inch links.
in other words, just the kind of imagery a young black pre-teen needs to get himself into a lot of trouble.

i remember back in middle school, going to "mixers" and shit. my friends and i desperately wanting to emulate the DMX look. so what do we do? we shave our heads, wear wifebeaters incessantly, and cop the big silver chains he used to rock back in the "It's Dark and Hell is Hot" days. lots of fights as a result. lots of indiscriminate barking too. remember that shit? worked out well, till our necks turned green from the cheap silver.

you're lovely, but you've got LOTS of problems.

just what i fucking get for trying to bond with a cube.

late 2005, driving under the influence, scaring the shit out of one of my cube friends as i pull signature curb-darts, late-brakes, and leadFOOTs...
Kasai: (slurred) yo are you into Death From Above 1979 at all?
Kasai's Cube Friend: (stammering) no dude, never heard of them. any good?
Kasai: oh shit man! they fucken rock cock! they met in prison man! (near miss on the rear end accident tip) they have this song called "Dead Womb," and the chorus goes, "we're looking for wives so tired of sluts comin to us in the clubs with their cocaine" (smiling, awaiting approval of this epic lyric).

splintering silence. don't worry, the cig run was vehicular manslaughter-free.

oh my gosh, cocaine?! that totally flies in the face of my virginal, sheltered, exurbian sensibilities. oh, well i never. what an offensive song?! my gosh! and that name!? DEATH-FROM-A-BOVE?!? my heavens!

fucking nerds. can't live with 'em, can't round them up and place 'em in internment camps.

i don't remember exactly when it was, but the first time i heard Death From Above 1979, it was kinda like the Second Great Awakening (with the first being that starstruck night in the basement, blowing my first thrill through a modified pencap, fretting over pulling a Len Bias. look it up).

yes! an awakening so thorough that it drove me to buy a bass and distortion pedal on xmas eve '05 (i didn't do xmas shopping that year for anyone). so thorough was the need to get in on this racket. i even bought the pink, rubber graphic tee off the website. fucking 30 bucks with shipping. but it was fresh to def who gives a fuck? at least it was up until i got motor oil all over it in a wal-mart parking lot during a late night oil re-up. only jerks buy expensive t-shirts.

i totally bought into what these cats were sellin. the "how they met" gimmicks (jail, gay bar, pirate ship, hot air balloon race, etc., etc.). the James Murphy, "if we had the resources we'd fly a plane into his head" band-name-lawsuit drama. the copious remixes of romantic rights (possibly the best song of the 21st century). the love-songs-on-bad-meth-vibe of their lyrics.

it seemed like every week i heard or read something about these beasts that made me sweat them ans their music even harder. and the combination of hearing the aforementioned "Dead Womb's" heartfelt chorus and seeing them on Conan (with Max Weinberg on drums at the end) really pushed things over the edge.

so of course i was tres heartbroken when they announced the surprisingly inevitable breakup. but it's ok. with their frenetic, massive sound and feel, they awakened a musical spirit in me that should've been rousted about years ago. fucking hated sports in high school. such a waste of time.

come on girls i know you know what you want!

you shot the kid in the head and looked down his neck because you're a fucking jock and you do what people tell you.

the time? well, that would be the penultimate day of perhaps the most horrifically insane amphetamines binge i've ever partaken of. about 6am. the place? the Crime Scene of course. the players? well. Tits Zawodny has left the building after Timemachine threw an enormous metal clothes rack at his face. make it home safely Matthew. you'll be in our prayers.

sun's coming up. not out of the ordinary.

hey. Real World's on. i've never really fucked with it, but Timemachine hearts it pretty severely, so teeth chattering, sweat glands working overtime, tremors making sitting still an impossibility, we set up on our respective couches and watch.

it doesn't take long for the magic to happen.

we'd discussed trying to finagle our way onto the show for quite some time. there's never really been an out-and-out criminal/scumbag/addict/tragic figure/pussy magnet beast amongst the casts of the past, sooo...

then the ideas start to flow, because god knows BEING on the show wouldn't be enough to satiate our need to feed. or is it our need for speed? both then.

anyway, somehow, in that early morning haze, we came up with what will be affectionately referred to as the Chainsaw Diaries. fucking MTV won't know what the fuck to do with it, but they'll love it nonetheless.

basically, things will go as follows:

Timemachine and i arrive at the house a day early to set up our equipment. accordingly, the entire upstairs of the house will be our playground. we shall fly in the Ministry of Sound PA system and install it in various rooms of the house. one song will play, at full volume, at all times, on a continuous loop: Nine Inch Nail's "Closer." 24/7. push the bassbins to 11 pleeze.

upon their arrival, our housemates are unsettled by the booming chorus: "i wanna fuck you like an ANIMAL!"

but we're not nearly done. oh no.

once the soundsystem's in place, we will take delivery (through an upstairs window) of our Stihl 025 chainsaws.

PARTY TIME!

during the obligatory co-mingling period of the first day in the house, the friendly schmoozing and boozing will be interrupted by more than the pulsating beat of Reznor's masterpiece.

maybe an astute cast member will notice that the ranks are two bodies short. just as they all agree that they are indeed undermanned, one of us will cut a hole in the floor/ceiling, Looney Tunes style, and drop the running chainsaw down to the floor below. someone may or may not break its fall. mtv hasn't gotten back to us on that.

the image of a falling, running chainsaw will set the tone for the season and let the entire cast, from the frat dawg meathead fuckface to the woefully insecure house cockpocket, know what time it is and who the fuck runs shit.

to keep up with the frenetic pace of the constant loop of NIN, we will of course procure a member of the Pagans motorcycle gang to supply us with more meth than you can shake a stick at. he will be one of the few allowed upstairs. more on that later.

at random moments during filming, we will terrorize our housemates with the whine of chainsaw motors, occasionally throwing them in unprovoked, meth-fueled tantrums.

of course there will be protest. these losers will complain that they feel "unsafe" sharing the house with such maniacs and that "the music is driving them nuts" and that they didn't "sign up for this." but MTV producers will be forced to keep us onboard as they log a 100 share Nielsen rating week after week. maybe they'll make things more lucrative for our fellow castmembers to keep them down for the cause. whatever cause that might be.

after a few weeks of chainsaw-driven tyranny, an entourage will form around us. in addition to our Pagan meth dealer (who, upon our insistence, will drive his bike inside the house on a nightly basis), Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson will come along to join the party, every so often having chainsaw swordfights for money and meth. of course, best buds Pete Doherty and Mike Tyson will want in, and maybe Pete will seduce the "innocent girl next door" character and get her hopelessly addicted to heroin.

additionally, we will breed fighting pitbulls, placing no fewer than ten steroid patches on the muscular haunches of each dog, tazering, beating, and starving them before setting them loose downstairs.

as a show of diplomacy, we will hire an electrician to help splice into the house's breaker box electrical grid thinger, giving us full control of the joint's power. this way, we determine when the others get electricity. how does an hour a day sound? good. good.

as a friendly practical joke, we will, in anticipation of some adolescent, MFF jacuzzi romp, dose the water with no less than a liter of GHB, to be absorbed cutaneously by the frat dawg meathead closet gay and his two drunken bimbo marks in the wee hours of the morning. we will be as conspicuous as possible while poisoning the water, revving our chainsaws and such, so that when it comes time to finger the culprit, there is no doubt as to who did it. but what the fuck are they gonna do about it? we've got chainsaws, steroid-addicted pitbulls, mounds of methamphetamine, and mike tyson. sit down bitch. and somebody get rid of these bodies.

so yeah, things are in the pre-pre-pre-production phase as of right now, but i'd say it's a sure thing. i mean, who in TV doesn't love ratings? and controversy? oh my gosh! that's reality TV's middle name.

Real World: Chainsaw Diaries - ETA Q3 2008

A Shirt, A Shirt, My Kingdom for a Shirt!

the first time i saw this mini-doc, i was firmly entrenched in a "Crime Scene" of my own. a tiny little house just outside the nation's capital, breaking hearts and federal laws, pushin up daisies and having the time of my life.

if i remember correctly, timemachine had smashed a framed reproduction of the Last Supper in a drunken rage the night before, so shards of glass were all over the sofa and the already-blood-stained, matted carpet. bare feet, not an option. add to that various stems, scales, and big-faced bills littering the filthy "living room" table, and you're on your way to a head full of nightmares and a nose full of trouble.

so how inspiring it must've been that weekend to see one of our greatest heroes, desperately beckoning for a shirt, amidst the filth and the nastiness and the disorder, crashing about Crime Scene Central. Tagged the wall, just so the haters wouldn't forget.

"hey you guys, that's what we call this place." you should've seen us. filled with glee and hope and pride. like the young buck who rocks the new Lebrons and comes to believe that he can do what the actual Lebron can do, just by virtue of the shoe. you know how it is.

our exploits aside, "Hired Gun" offers in-depth insights into both Pete Doherty's lunacy as well as his stellar musicianship. won't you give it a go?

Baby Won't You Take Me To Albion Glade?

timemachine hipped me to this vid of a young, pre-Libertines Pete Doherty queueing up for the "new" Oasis album. basically the fledgling poet turning the MTV ethos on its head, long before "Kate-gate," blood paintings, or vintage Jaguars. fucking blowing the micman's mind with his lyrical wisdom. lest you forgot that the man is a fucking poet. emaciated, troubled, and drug-addicted, but still a poet. i don't know about you, but that's how i prefer my artists.

Well I Never?!?! And You Never Will You Mark Ass Trick!

there are few things in this world that i enjoy more than being scoffed at by (preferably gorgeous) chicks while i'm in full-bore beast mode. nothing satisfies quite like that scrunched up nose or that quick burst of air that coincides with a protracted, theatrical eye roll.

what the fuck's her problem?

i don't know.
maybe i have my pants down.

maybe i'm tripping face at the bar, spewing nonsensical wisdom juice and generally causing problems.

maybe i've drawn a swastika on my dicktip and i'm insisting that she "heil little hitler." (has never happened, but a kid can dream, can't he?)

maybe i'm bleeding, yet carrying on as though nothing's wrong, brushing off pleas to go to the hospital. possibly beasting out even harder as a result of the blood loss.

maybe i have a "coke moustache."

maybe my shirt is caked in vomit.

maybe i just snorted a hollywood of cayenne pepper to please a crowd.

maybe i'm sporting a full-blown erection.

maybe i've just been caught trying to steal a bottle from behind the bar.

maybe it's just that i'm "drinking too much" or "doing drugs."

whatever the situation, rest assured that kasai is going above and beyond to be all that he can be. an absolute derelict, to be sure. well. dere-lick-my-balls katie kondescension!

the best is when katie kondescension is going out with a close friend. haha.

"how can you be friends with someone like this?" she asks in horror.

well sweetheart, the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.
vive le cirque!

Interstella 5555: Part Seven

and now it's here,
we've reached the end,
i know it's rough,
goodbye my friend,
the times were good,
the mood was light,
there weren't nuff room,
your twat's so tight!?

ultimo.
as if you didn't peep it on your own time. don't let me catch you running off again or i'll give you a colombian necktie. a colombian necktie's when you slit a guy's throat, then pull his tongue through the hole so it hangs down like a necktie. usually gets the point across. not to be confused with the oft-utilized sicilian necktie kids.

and for those who see this as mere adolescent hyperviolence, know that it's really foreshadowing for the next series of posts, which will be far more disturbing and upsetting than any of that necktie bizness. trust me.

Interstella 5555: Part Six

i've noticed that in the few anime that i've seen that at the end, the bustling metropolis is typically decimated by a bulbous white gigaton blast and the villain turns into some sort of enormous, ever-expanding postule, throbbing in agony, barely resembling a human being.

hiroshima anyone?

doesn't take a genius to realize that an entire generation of japanese animators (and common folk as well) are, to this day, affected by "the bomb." fully ingrained. no shaking it loose. fortunately, mr. matsumoto doesn't suffer the innocents. i mean it's not all rainbows and unicorns, but it's also not finding pieces of your nose on your pillow after a massive coke BLOWout, now is it?

balance is everything.

Interstella 5555: Part Five

you know the funny thing about hallucinogenic flashbacks? doesn't matter what your response may be, 'cos i'm gonna tell ya. the funny thing about hallucinogenic flashbacks is that you're not on the shit anymore, yet you're still racing, fucking
up the flywheel, burning rubber, but only at about half the rpm. we'll get ridiculous. let's say, 9,000rpm?

well...

when asked, "when does it end?" by a rookie,

i'm

left

with

no

choice

but

to

respond:

"sometimes virginia, it never ends..." (sullen sigh and head hung low to conceal a cheshire grin)

wouldn't want the uninitiated to get the wrong impression. wouldn't want to lead anyone to believe that this is all shits and giggles. 'cos this is real work, this is fucken grown man shit. the helpless and the unprepared and the skeptical and the close-minded need not to apply for this position. no experience is necessary. but we do ask that you keep your higher brain inside the vehicle at all times during the ride.

vive le cirque!

Interstella 5555: Part Four

lights are blinding my eyes. uva AND uvb bombarding the windows to my soul, and therefore, bombarding my soul. who says you can't walk and spew fun at the same time? "not i" said the lion. well if it wasn't the lion, then who the fuck was it, huh?! this looks like a job for heary aloisius abernathy. on the case, on your girl. respeck.

Interstella 5555: Part Three

when i was maybe five years old, my mother bought me this super mario bros. handheld video game. this was a few years before i'd gotten that good NES, but i was way too young to have a gameboy. so to placate my need to feed (enhanced by asshole older cousins who never let me play mario when i visited), she got me this game. the thing looked and felt like a brick and clamped shut to avoid accidental openings i guess. clamshell setup, like today's gameboy/gamegirl.

my time with it was short, to say the least.

one day, i was sitting there, beasting out in front of the tv with the stronger of the mario twins, climbing up a vine or going down a pipe or some shit like that, when in a fit of excitement, i snapped the game shut in my hands. right on the tip of my dick.

now don't ask how or why my penis was exposed while i was gaming, as i don't really remember myself. i do know, however, that i was five, and around this time in my life, i particularly enjoyed "being free." basically my euphemism for being buck naked at inappropriate times. something i should definitely get back into p.s.

i just remember the game clamping down on me like some kind of super-pincer. fucking my world up. not letting go of my foreskin for a while, and freed only when my embarrassed and visibly upset father came to the rescue. needless to say i never wanted to see that handheld ever again.

anyway, now that you have the image of a naked five year old boy and his wang in your head, enjoy le Daft Punk suckas.

i'm the son of a bad man!

speaking of bringin chaos to blocks like the riots in watts, i stumbled upon this vid of Stax Records legends the Bar-Kays performing "Son of Shaft." footage is from a PBS doc entitled "Wattstax" from a few years ago. pretty good stuff. you should peep it.

though this concert (billed as the "Black Woodstock) was put on in Watts, LA, only a few years after the hellacious riots there, it turned out to be a positive and powerful shindig. really furthered the "black-is-beautiful" ethos that extended from the Black Power movement. no "incidents" either.

and as for the Bar-Kays, if you need to ask, please get your Weight up, not your Hate up. too much hipster nonsense is bad for the S.O.U.L. friend.

don't speak 'cos yr mind is amazing.

here we see a stripper type ("kup kakes") shaking her ass for the entire interweb to see. seems her daddy failed the only mission a man with a daughter has: to keep her off the pole. but whatev, parenting's tough i've heard, so i can't knock the poor bastard i guess. and besides that's not why we're here.

nope. we're here because kup kakes embodies a societal problem as old as time itself: white chicks trying to be rump-shaking, tip drill girls. ladies, ladies. there's no legitimate reason for this sort of behavior. i know there may be some ass envy among you, but face it, what's done is done. there are indeed several instances where kup kakes suffers from a case of mistaken identity (supahead et al. perhaps?). it's really quite embarrassing and frankly, a bit of a turn off. but that's just me.

but that's okay. that's why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Tetragrammaton himself invented fucking ridiculously big breast implants. call it compensation, balancing the ass equation a bit. and don't even get me started on the butt implants i'm hearing so much about. don't EVEN get me started.

Interstella 5555: Part Two.

Part Two. Those helmets Daft Punk rock are fucking dope sick! but one has to wonder just how comfy they are. hmmmm... i bet they're super duper comfy. like a motorcycle helmet lined with clouds and babies' dreams. i mean how else could you explain them never really removing them? it must be like sex for your face. i kinda feel like they even wear them when they're banging out their wives/groupies/girlfriends. maybe they get off on "technologic" sex? who knows?

as i don't have the luxury of wearing a full face helmet everywhere i go (especially not during sex; could you imagine the explanation?), i think i'm gonna strike out on my own headgear crusade. what piece of equipment would be worthy of a brave young soul who once went out on the town in a Onesie? you know, the fleece pajamas with the footies that you used to wear back when you couldn't do math problems or even count without using your fingers. god we were fucking dumb back then.

but yeah, being the onesie wearing cavalier, i've decided that it would be right and proper to bring back ski goggles as the facial accessory of choice. and i don't mean in some hipster-chic bullshit scenester way. no. i mean like fucking robbing the corner store style, eating now-or-laters by the case, bringin chaos to blocks like the riots in Watts. Think less Lower East Side, more Wu-Tang "Forever."

Interstella 5555: Part One

if you needed any further evidence of the beauty of youtube, this is it: interstella 5555, in its entirety, albeit divided into parts. but hey, thieves can't be choosers right?

released at the end of '03, this dvd was an animated complement to Daft Punk's astronomical Discovery album (for the dilettantes, it's the one with one more time on it). with pictures by Leiji Matsumoto and sounds by Mssrs. Bangalter and de Homen-Christo, it was nothing short of a masterpiece, detailing the abduction and rescue of an interstellar pop band. it was nothing short of cross-media marketing genius as well, with the DVD/Discovery combo being parlayed into a lucrative vinyl figure racket.

if i were those green cats in the video, i mean if i were abducted (a euphemism of course for getting your ass snatched), i would def develop stockholm syndrome. i mean how could you not? what would bring a human being to the point where he or she dubiously procures another human being the way i dubiously procure a cheap bottle of vodka while the bartender's not looking? they're just so pitiful and helpless, those kidnappers. i thinks they be needin a hug, right quick.

and as for the video, i know what you're thinking. fuck you kasai, i can just go on youtube and watch the entire thing on my own.

but the loose nail gets the hammer my little mogwai, so stay close to me now, lest you be picked off by the laser-eyed werewookies that shoot killer bees from their gnarled fingertips. i'll keep you safe. plus you watch the parts here, and you get to bear witness to my brilliance. oh it just shines ever so brightly now!

i mean have you read fucken youtube comments lately? rubbish! you're better off crashing at my place. why are you looking at me like that? c'mon. c'mon! don't worry, i'm not a creep or anything like that baby. i'm not some creep predator ok?!

or am i? i don't remember things so well since the electro-shock therapy started ramping up.

are you sleeping? then i'll let you be.

welcome to the no-spin zone and junk.
the House allegedly gave the greenlight to anti-price-gouging legislation this week. you know, in regards to the fucked up petrol situation? in short, the bill would target anyone (gargantuan corporations as individuals? not again!?!) seeking out an "unfair advantage" in the energy market or who charges "unconscionably excessive" prices. of course, texas-republican-fuckface Joe Barton argued that the language of the bill was vague, that he didn't know what "unconscionably excessive" means.

of course you do you twat!

it means that gasoline's becoming a fucking luxury item. it means that over 60% of heads that make less than $35k a year feel that the meteoric pre-summer rise in prices is a serious problem. and there are a lot more cats making that amount, or less, than Barton and Co. would like to admit.

Congress wants to break up the Big Five oil companies, seeing trust-busting as the only way to rein in prices. of course "independent" analysts and other asshole "experts" rebut that this is the wrong way to go.

so, in essence, we lose either way.

either Congress is desperately out of touch on this issue (much in the same way they are with most everything else), or the "experts" are on the take, and will fight to the death to maintain the supremacy of the Grand High Exalted ExxonMobil and Its Ordained Auxilliaries.

of course, one can say that, adjusted for currency exchange and measurement discrepancies, we pay a lot less than all of europe (think 6-8 bucks a gallon, adjusted of course).

but fuck that. British Petroleum is like fucking nitroglycerin compared to our watered down nonsense. and besides. last i checked, no one has busted their balls as thoroughly as the U.S. to get in on that cut-rate hookup. fucken at-cost. fucken saudi arabians pay less than a dollar a gallon. subsidies. but then there's the whole beheading thing. ouch.

so i guess my question is, what does it take to get people in this country pissed off? en masse? it surely isn't getting jerked by enormous corporations. and let's face it: the only reason most of us began to oppose the war was because we were "losing," not out of any sense of decency or astuteness.

the children have been telling you to wake up for quite some time now. what do you say we give em a listen?

I'm Afraid of Americans!

this one goes out to anyone who's ever set foot in the Shooting Gallery in wonderful downtown Williamsburg, Brooklyn. it's the MV for David Bowie's "I'm Afraid of Americans," featuring Trent Reznor as the obligatory American to be afraid of. they used it on the Showgirls soundtrack. remember that shit? fucken nc-17 rating? only a handful of those dished out eh? commercial poison. R's bad enough. god damn elizabeth berkley, "Leave your inhibitions at the door, the show is about to begin," feverishly trying to get your hands on a copy you pre-teen scum of the past.

but that's not why i'm doing this. no. rather, the astute among you will notice that at 1:29 in the video, the icon of the Shooting Gallery (and all the lunacy and genius it embodies) is plastered on the wall, next to the shady, trenchcoated, G-man looking character.

Patrick! get your fucking act together!
Bowie! get your fucking act together!

it's really quite the same if you look at it long enough.

New York Cares.

subway she is a porno. the pavements they are a mess. my sentiment exactly. but at least the mayor wasn't caught smoking crack.

this is a vice tv interview with philly band clockcleaners, who apparently have a terrible reputation both at home and abroad for their less than personable manner. but i think there's a lesson to be learned from their abrasiveness.

along with heroic substance abuse and hooker murder, rap-grade beef is what the game's been missing. the rock game that is. the closest thing we have is old heads (morrissey, pete townshend, et al.) indirectly shitting on brash newcomers (arctic monkeys, klaxons, et al.).

but that's fucking britain.

in the states, the best we can do is hinder shooting off at the mouth about how fucking gay fall out boy is. oh the irony, it runs deep, so deep.

during my first stay at the shooting gallery in brooklyn, i discussed with muscle matt and timemachine the merits of infusing rap's hardass ethos into rock. who says i shouldn't be able to stab the drummer of some other fucked up, gay band that i despise, outside the "ballroom" after the show, lance "un" rivera style? who says i can't dedicate half an album to calling out some faggot lead singer? who says i can't indict a pussified system that rewards cowardice, insincerity, and sensitivity over balls-out, maniacal self -destruction and advanced narcissistic rage?

who the fuck says there can't be BEEF in the rock?

i'll eat the pussy til i burp. eat your shit like it's oreo cookies and shit.

it's may guys! can you believe it? fucken summer's fast approaching. for some of us it's already here. my new summer's resolution is to do a lot less drunk driving than i did last summer. but i also resolve to do a lot more drunk fighting/mugging/fucking than i did last summer. i resolve to maintain last year's level of solitary drinking, and hopefully my connects will get their weight up (not their hate up) before i leave forever.

taking a cue from dipset, i think i'm gonna try to bring back riding bikes (and neon hanes tank tops will be in full effect, please beleeme). fucking still got the bmx joint from summer of '95. i saw my first set of titties that summer. had the reebok trainmaster II's shinin with blades on the motherfuckin silks. moved to a new neighborhood. the nascent years of the internet in my family (hello porn!).

all in all a fuckable year.

but i am morbidly out of shape, so i'll need the great god rotor to assist me. worked for fucken neal cassady, and he was driving a fucken bus! shouldn't be a problem right? right?

when you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitute!

not much to say. only that the dvd of jackie brown that my sister brought me from barcelona so many years ago doesn't work on the dvd players here. fucken region 1/region 2 incompatablitity.

horses wanna dance but find their wings are damaged, water damage.

"promo" vid for digitalism's "pogo," off their upcoming debut, "idealism." unlike van she, it seems digitalism knows how to function outside the remix game. yet similarly to van she tech, digitalism have a bomb refix of klaxons' "atlantis to interzone." in the words of O.J., go figure?! you know what to do.

knife wounds about the face and neck.

fucking perfect! finally! the moment i've eagerly awaited since the day i started doing this shit. the hate! i love the boo! like if i were terrell owens or mike vick, i would go to a strip club, pull a couple cunts, take them to my condo and beat off on their faces while envisioning the booing crowds at the georgia dome. that's how deep it goes.

in reference to the "bonny darko [sic]" post, "anonymous" writes, "The name of the guy is MARKO, so it makes you the retard!!" turns out it is marko. whoever you are, you have no idea how happy this makes me! research was never one of my strong suits in skool.

but i know a kid named marko and he's a total faggot; he drives a bright orange grand cherokee with chrome rims for god's sake. and a ski rack! fuck! so i'd say darko is much more fitting for the son of a genocidal perpetrator.

but thank you for the correction. and the hate. can't forget the hate. for pointing out my grievous error and validating me as a human being, i'm gonna hook you up with 100 Schrute bucks. that is, if you want em? but how could you turn these down? 1000 Schrute bucks can be redeemed for an extra five minutes of lunchtime. crucial.

all you have to do to claim your reward is send a SASE to:
I Want My Schrute Bucks God Dammit!
P.O. Box 601255
Baltimore, MD, 21210

keep up the good work you fact checker you. maybe i should make mistakes more often. maybe things'll get racial? hopefully.

pop that pussy doodoo brown!

sorry dimebag, but i fucks wit ed rec something serious!

you were such a p.y.t.? i think it means pretty young thing, you know mj, paul? right.

this is the video for the lead-off single from Justice's forthcoming album "(cross)," due this summer. i'm not going to plead with you not to download the leaked songs like those cats over at palms out sounds.

no.

that would be a bit hypocritical.

but i will admit that, in the words of drama jade, i have "justice fever." for those of you not thoroughly engaged to the hipster circuit, Justice is kinda what you get if you remove the helmets from the Daft Punkers and sell them bunk e pills. only instead of coming at you with the hammers, Justice chooses to lay down floor-burning (excuse the cliche) original tracks and remixes as their revenge. take that you scamming bunk e seller!

and yeah, i know, i know. there were unfinished videos, radio rips, and a whole rack of remixes floating about the interweb long before now. but i felt it more appropriate to feature the finished version of Jonas and Francois' video. plus, listening to/watching things months after they drop is the new downloading "promotional use only" music videos from a parisienne server.

i still haven't heard a second of the first arctic monkeys album. but i'm told it's flat out fantastic.

baby you're gettin so lazycrazyswayze lately, won't chu come down from that tree and date me?

"There is a mountain of snow,
Up past the big glen,
We have a castle enclosed,
There is a fountain,
Out of the fountain flows gold,
Into a HUGE hand,
That hand's a held by a bear,
Who has a sick band,
Of goats and cats and pigs and bats,
With brooms and bats and wings and rats,
And great big dogs like kings and queens,
And everyone plays drums and sings,
Of big sharks, sharp swords,
Beast knees, bees lords,
Sweet cakes, mace lakes,
Oh mamamamamamama
- Dan Deacon, "Wham City," courtesy of Baltimore City Paper

Drag the Waters.

i will never forget the look on that woman's face when she laid her eyes on me. she already had a pretty deathly pallor to her, but the tortured sounds of pantera's drag the waters at the traffic light afforded her an even more deathly plexion.

she clearly wanted to cover her kids' ears, reach for the backseat with all deliberate speed. but she was too frightened to move. guess they don't get this sort of thing that often out in exurbia.

turn it up.

all i could do is laugh and think, "wow kasai, i wonder if she's more appalled and shocked that i'm playing this song this loudly, or that i'm black and listening to this thrashy metal stuff?"

who knows. the week rolls on and time waits for no man.

green light.

bonny darko.

so i had it all mapped out, a nice little tribute to darko milosevic, son of serbian murderer-despot and war criminal slobodan milosevic. i mean i really had a full work-up on this cat planned, but i hop on the interweb, and nothing. no pictures, no articles, no journal entries. naught. as if this guy didn't even exist. which is a shame, because he really is quite the character, just like his daddy was. surely not a coincidence following daddy's trouble with the Hague.

the only reason i know about this maniac is because of a 2002 article in bob guccione, jr's now defunct gear magazine. a grainy, full-page portrait of the sharp jawed, dead-eyed fuck. all spiked bleached blonde hair and pinky rings and tracky bottoms and sharp suits. real eurotrash, but you'd better not call him that to his face. lest you wanna be missing yours.

i laughed out loud at one particular anecdote: darko is at a cafe, minding his business, when a mentally retarded, elderly gentleman a few tables over begins witlessly staring at him in a retard's stupor. unforgiving of the fact that the man is not well, darko becomes noticeably agitated, shouting at the idiot to stop looking at him. of course the poor bastard doesn't respond.

so what does darko do?

he yanks his chrome IMI Mark XIX .50 AE Desert Eagle (the gun weighs nearly five pounds mind you) from his belt and proceeds to pistolwhip the retard in front of a restaurant full of people. he only stopped on account of fatigue. fucken thing's heavy!

talk about stuntin like my daddy! this was around the height of the ethnic cleansing over there.

bottom line: the guy heads an ecstasy and heroin syndicate that rivals those of mother russia, and he's crashed no less than 38 ferraris. think prince nazeem meets uday and qusay hussein, but without the boxing championships or the raping parties. ok, maybe there were some raping parties, but the journo was just too afraid to confront dude on it. eastern europe's a brutal place. they won't hear you scream.

and ps, i'll betcha darko's doing a lot of celebratory retard pistol-whipping and ferrari-crashin' after the serbian vic in the Eurovision Song Contest 2007. unless he's in exile or prison or fucking dead. thanks to the interweb blackout on this cat, i really wouldn't know.

dimebag darrell week begins............ now!

i'll never forget that frigid december morning in '04, waking up to the howard stern show, anticipating laughs but being met by a morose and solemn tone among the personalities.

dimebag darrell, pantera guitarist, shot dead at a gig by a disgruntled and disturbed fan who was upset that the musician had taken up with a side project, damageplan. fucked my world up. comedian jim florentine (special ed from crankyankers and a close friend of the pantera guitarist), was on the brink of sobbing, solemnly admitting that he'd spent the night before the shooting boozing with dimebag and signing autographs. he couldn't attest enough to the kindness and fun-loving nature of the wild haired maniac.

maybe this shouldn't have meant much to me, but it was only nine months prior that i'd had my own pantera epiphany of sorts. after wandering around our college town causing problems at 5am, timemachine and i returned to "the House," still looking for trouble, swayed out of our minds and not even able to pronounce the word "sleep."

so what do we do?

we head for the rooms of those who could pronounce it, chanting "so small!" (the chinpokomon episode of south park had just aired that week), blaring pantera on our friend's surround sound system at sunrise, pounding kentucky gentleman, and trying to score more tour support.

our fervent, cro-magnon ceremony would lead the stevo to rip the cords out of the speakers in a sleep-deprived rage.

"go to bed you guys!" he shouted, all long faced. test in three hours?

cast away like children. just the way we like it.

good times. and given those good times, and others that would involve those guitar heroics, hateful lyrics, and hard intoxicants, the death of dimebag (like b.i.g. and pac before him) was more or less an equivalent of the kennedy assassination for me. or lennon if you wanna take that route, but i like my jfk reference better.

where were you the day it happened?

dimebag. you will be missed.

where are my FUCKING mushrooms!

just thought i'd whet the appetites of those curious to know what mario, princess peach , and luigi are up to right now.

fucking nypd.

to mothers past, present, and future, happy... what day is it again? oh yeah. happy chanukah!

according to a salary.com survey, the work done by the stay-at-home mom would equate to a $134,121 a year salary, with working moms pulling in a hypothetical $85,876 a year. damn mom. with that supplementary income maybe you could front me the cash for a sportbike? oh, hypothetical you say? oh well. we still love ya.

i started to put the video for that boyz II men song 'mama' up, but i start welling up whenever i hear/see it. i admit it. maybe i'll change my mind later in the day. who knows? i'm really quite the loose cannon ya know...

meth mouth is no laughing matter.

i was just discussing with timemachine how i can't wait until the meth epidemic hits the northeastern u.s. partly out of spite (payback for the devastation of the black psyche brought by the crack explosion of the 80s and 90s) and partly because i want in.

so how fitting it is that i should stumble upon a nameless gentleman at the bus depot on my way back in from new york last weekend (yes, that same weekend spent raging out with timemachine, ruminating over the impending wave of pestilence) who indeed lived the quintessential street thunder lifetime.

now a trucker, our hero grew up in green bay, lived in a commune in oregon getting high and fucking loose hippie twat as a teen, only to move to hawaii at the behest of his drug addict girlfriend. living there, tending bar, trying to keep his lady under control, his typical morning consisted of surfing at dawn and putting a dent in the $10 grocery bag of weed given to him by the north shore locals. real kamaaina shit. respekt.

after an incident involving his girlfriend dosing him with acid while at work (and the nightmarish trip that ensued), the relationship started to unravel, and following her death a short time later, he moved back to the mainland.

back to the midwest. the heartbeat of amurrica.

michigan specifically. now this would be the part of the story that gets my underthings all wet, what with the perpetuation of the street thunder fantasy and all.

so our nameless trucker moved back to michigan and got in with a tough crowd. the pagans to be precise. and everyone knows that nothing, i mean absolutely nothing, can stop a motorcycle gang. the cops? in the words of an unknown klansmen: "but who will protect the cops?"

imagine, if you will, my doe-eyed wunderment at the sounds of these stories of prospecting and motorcycle-bound drive-bys and methamphetamine manufacture and prostituting runaways. fucken wax ecstatic!

but alas, the lure of stability over chaos and the fear of getting murked led him away from the street scene and back into the arms of the american dream. a tax-paying, child-raising, wedding band-wearing benefit II society.

but from what i'm reading timemachine (and anyone else who's in for a bit of the old hyperviolence), these pagans could be our gateway into fulfilling the prophecy.

"The Pagans make and distribute most of the methamphetamine and PCP in the northeastern U.S. - about $15 million-worth a year. They have their own chemists and laboratories, which supply dealers in Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland, and Ohio. They also deal in cocaine, marijuana and killerweed (Parsley sprinkled with PCP)."

hey wait a minute?! new jersey, new york, maryland, motorcycles, narcotics, parsley? that's us, innit?

what the fuck are we waitin for?!

your head is on backwards mate. you might wanna fix it.

god bless puppeteering.
god bless hallucinogens.
god bless MIDI.
god bless 1972.
god bless sid krofft references.
god bless boy-cut panties.
god bless stop motion animation.
god bless sleepless nights.
god bless suroosh and shane.
god bless don calhoun.
god bless death from above 1979.
god bless nymphomania.
god bless america, and no one else.
god bless trixie and the tree trunks.
and god bless VICE TV.

off we go, into the wild blue yonder.

i just saw the commercial for one of these and i swear to god, if this thing had existed when i was a young buck, a. i definitely would've pestered my rents for one every xmas until victory was mine, and b., i most certainly would be a champion powerboat racer or in the blue angels by now. or some shit like that. as for the second point, don't try to trace the logic. just shut your eyes and let me slide my hand UP your SKIRT. get it? no? you must not be a fan then, huh? my soldiers know where i'm comin from.

fuck coopah!

thank you shigeru miyamoto. you pioneer, you fixer of all things broken, you kyoto killer. though you created so many technological wonders worthy of our praise, i'm here for the mario bros brah.

they truly were super. and it totally kicked ass having princess peach on my jock every time i saved the day. but toadstool was a total fucken hater. punk ass bitch. at least luigi handled being a bench rider with some class. whose name is on the fucking box anyway, bitch?! mario! that's what i thought motherfucker! now go get me a fucking sandwich! and some juice! you mushroom headed fairy!

so it's upskirt action you want, huh? then it's upskirt action you shall receive my friends!

they come from mongolia, from bahrain and the uk. from china and brazil and jakarta. from tulsa, oklahoma and from normandy. from tokyo and from manila.

all in search of the same thing...

upskirt action!

seems that placing the "upskirt" tag in a few of my recent posts has led to an international hunt for the covert panty shot. farbeit for me to disappoint my readers i guess. i'm sure these vids are a bit more tasteful than what those guys are looking for, but whatev. enjoi you sketchballs.

oh yeah?

well...
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!

p.s. can't stop, won't stop with the unicorns nacas!

an ode to jerome wolf.

our man sits quietly in the upstairs bath tub,
filled to the brim, all lukewarm,
puffing away on his stolen hashpipe, and look,
there's a fly on his dicktip,
he's thinking of the working girls of the delta,
and he watches silently as the fly traverses
its fleshy foreign territory,
being a professional killer, he's left with no other option...

down periscope!

slowly at first, so the survivor of an animal
doesn't know what's happening,
quick, quicker, quickly now into the filthy depths,
his thin lips grasping that pipe,
watching that insect scramble maniacally,
it doesn't make the logical choice,
a billion years of instinct ignored,
no way! it just sorta hangs on, just kinda stays there,
legs soaked, wings coated in dead skin and soap bubbles,
didn't see this coming, you fuck!

jerry springs out of the bathtub, satisfied with the setup,
watches the poor bastard slide down the drain in a rush,
you might have seen a smile on those wrinkled lips,
were you there, that is.

30 years in the same fucked up game,
and lord knows how he managed to pull it off,
blew a guy to pieces with a 105mm gun
in khe sanh on christmas one year,
there's hope for you yet you tank jockey,
put our tax pounds to good use,
trounce all that you see and hear,
and if it runs, it's VC!

three cheers for the pink mist!
hip-hip, boom!
hip-hip, ratatatat!
hip-hip, what's that smell?

alternate ending.

there was a time when i was slightly embarrassed to mark pete doherty as one of my heroes. biggest rock star in the uk, yet belly broke? constantly shooting drugs yet as lucid as if he'd been chewing flinstones vitamins? a menace II society, bashing about albion in margaret thatcher-era jaguars, perpetually under arrest? going to rehab like most people go to safeway? this is your hero kasai? jesus.
(scornful looks and scoffing ensue)

exactly.

look at what the last few months have brought for the kid and you'll know who's got the last laugh you squares.

hell, there was a time when even pete-o-philes like myself thought he would be strung out and dead at the crime scene by now, particularly after the whole blood painting scenario. but i guess that's the thing about expectations. just prospecting. like playing the lotto. can't count us out, can't keep us down!

shine on you tiny diamond!

insane in the membrane.

i've been getting hounded by my case worker for the last few days for not going to class. but for all the hounds, all the naggers (i see you randy marsh), i say only that you ignore the autodidactic route i've been taking recently.

sure, i've been lying in bed in a catatonic state sick with fever and malaise. sure, all the textbooks are piled beside the dresser, covered in layers of dust. sure, sure, sure. but a wise man once said, education is all the things you remember after schooling is done. or something like that. two pennies for whoever can identify that wise man. godspeed.

yeah, it's really been about life's education lately, seeking out things that otherwise wouldn't be found. to a certain extent.

for instance.

today, i listened to an interview with renowned american neurologist oliver sacks. the year was 1987, and at the time, he was hyping a book called 'the man who mistook his wife for a hat.' quirky title to be sure, but the premise is a particularly striking one.

a professor at a prestigious music academy. suddenly, our prof can't identify his students just by looking at them. yet, when he hears them talk or sing, he recognizes them instantly. things get worse, as everyday objects lose their visual meaning. hence the title. this poor bastard actually thought that his wife's head was a hat and reached for it accordingly. literally trapped in a world devoid of the visual cues that all human beings take for granted.

now don't be mistaken; he was hardly demented and remained a talented musician throughout. and according to dr. sacks, it would be music and sound that proved to be the best prescription for this condition, labeled visual agnosia.

in another case, a virile, sound-minded young man rolled out of bed one day, shrieking in horror, claiming that he awoke to find a leg, someone else's leg, in his bed. yet when he sprung out of bed to escape it, it was attached to his body in some ungodly way. he literally saw his own leg as some sort of god-forsaken demon appendage.

it turned out that he had a metastasizing brain tumor that had destroyed the part of the brain responsible for the visual/sensory representation of one's leg.

all of this of course, speaks to an important point. though the human brain has allowed us to dominate our epoch and achieve some truly great things, it really is our own worst enemy. read a newspaper and you'll see what i'm talking about.

i got a woman and she won't be true.

i recently received an email inquiring as to why i haven't been as prolific with the posts this week.

welllllll...

thoughts of respiratory failure, talk of re-admitting myself to rehab, behind in every class, persistent ringing in the ears, broadband's fucked, closed eye visuals of murder scenes, nasty head cold, debilitating panic attacks, hearing various voices as i attempt to fall asleep at night, profuse nosebleeds (and i haven't had a nosebleed since i was six, so draw your own conclusions), dreams predicting the first of said nosebleeds, bone-crippling alienation, and general scumbaggery.

so there you have it, kipper1131986. i'm pretty much a walking advert for any one of ONDCP's numerous anti-drug campaigns. The Crash + Mental Illness = The Anti-Drug. as a "for instance."

happy you fuck?

as for the video, though i'm not on any (on account of the wholly american condition of being uninsured), i can def relate to this video for placebo's "meds" more than i'd like to admit.

maybe i'll get busy again when shit blows over, huh? got some essays in the works (lotta fucked up shit is going down as we speak and i can't sleep on the children as they weep), so don't pee your pants, just hold your horses, just hold tight babydoll, clouds'll clear soon enough.

Happy New Year

part of the weekend never dies. i still feel like there's a bomb on the bus. what was it 55mph, 60mph? such an unreasonable demand. fuck you dennis hopper. you never lived up to the potential that easy rider made us believe you had. choke artist.

my parents only bought me edited rap albums when i was younger. to get profanity i either had to steal from metro music (the local hip hop record store) or hustle with that lawn mower for a few days. that grind made me a man though. "party crasher," "spazzola," and "play IV keeps" were the songs on this album that signalled my evolution from a severe punkass to a slightly less severe punkass.

Help, I'm A Rock!

a self-fulfilling prophecy, huh? while a lot of the country is concerned with perfectly acceptable things like spider-man 3 opening weekend, nba playoffs, de la hoya vs. mayweather, picnicking maybe.

what are we doing?

well, anthropophagous beast, timemachine, muscle matt, konvict keri, dangerous dave, killa kos, timechild, and jade "pour some" lien "in my cup," well, are pretty much trying to see just how far millenia of evolution have really taken us.

"how much can this fragile vessel really handle?" we wondered out loud. drive it hard and put it away wet being the mission statement; more good times serving as both our morals and our ethics.

trying to really, well, live in the moment and be the moment simultaneously, anomalies, yeah? anachronisms that will 5,000 years from now be regarded as the unofficial link between homo sapiens sapiens and the next stuck-up, overachieving, telekinetic, overlarge incarnation of the species. cursed with indestructibility, yet able to come to grips with demi-god status. we're fucking talking hypersensory perception children, completely jacked in to the synchronicity that dominates much of modern life.

fucking vampiric, energized by the delirium of sleep deprivation and politician-grade moral flexibility.

this is your brain. now this is your brain at its most masochistic, its most dissociative. feel good tv off. self-inflicted embalming, pounding the pavement amidst families and couples literally cocooned by decency, stability, and sensibility.

but for now, there's only those like us (or our mortal betters who we seek to befriend, betray, and behead) that hunt with the lights out. going through the motions, at slightly above mach 2.

the antisocial soldiers brigade fighting corps squad militia team hell bent on freaking out the cubes and taking what we want, when we want. twiddling our thumbs, impatiently waiting for the meth epidemic to cast a dark, horrifying cloud over the american northeast like so many killer africanized bees. among other things.

but at its core, this weekend was a test yeah? i mean if we're really honest. like i'm thinking paternity, aids, sat, driving, bar exam, pilot's, pregnancy, act, lsat, gre, mcat, gmat, the memory game, and simon says all in one. the fork in the road as it were. and i've been caught cheating a few times in the past. and maybe i didn't study. never intended to.

jesus what? incessant gotham metropolis supercenter fuckpit hub? can he really hack it up there, among all the enterprising immigrants and the snot-nosed starfuckers and the heartless club kids and the global conglomerates and those wacky sicilians and the 100 year old sewers and the waif boys in girls' jeans and the girls, deprived of their jeans, striding proudly through the filth and the noise and the heat with their victorian dresses and adorable kids' shoes and flowers in their hair?

well.

i'm writing this aren't i? so as 311 once said, fuck the naysayers cuz it don't mean a thing, cuz this is what style we bring. don't act like you don't know what i'm talking about. god i fucking miss the 90s.

fuck bin laden!

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i am the immortal eye of god, collapsing in upon myself for all to see and hear and feel and touch and breathe and live and taste and smell and think.

YouTube user RuneOfTruth writes:
"Once again I don't think many of you even attempted to search LSD on wiki. I'm not supporting the use of LSD but what I was trying to get across is that you can't die from taking LSD. If someone died from a bad trip its because they had mental issues to begin with. And honestly how many people do you know are in a drug rehab because of ACID eh? Yeah thats what I thought...usually alcohol, cause one bad trip with this stuff and you stay away from it. Trust me."

can't die from it, huh? haha. yeah. ok. spoken like a man of stable mind. spoken like an asshole who doesn't understand how dark it can get and how deep it really goes. spoken like a spectator.

and how many people do you know in rehab period, Rune? you'd be surprised what cats get committed for these days. there was a guy in my group who was into freebasing pulverized paint thinner at one time in his sad, desperate life. and as much as i'd like to trust you and take your word for it that one bad trip will deter one from repeated use, i have it on good authority that i go through phases where i actively seek out bad trips.

maybe i'll watch hyperviolent horror movies (muted of course) on an endless loop. blare some really intimidating idm or industrial music. maybe write notes to myself before the trip starts that say "you're dead!" or "how could you have killed them?!" and leave them around the room for me to find later. always makes for a good time.

i am not alone in this quest.

as for the video.

i think my favorite part has to be when he proclaims that taking acid can be "more important than reading the bible six times or becoming a Pope." not once. six times! becoming a Pope he said!

fucken awesome.

you see that you fork-tongued zealot swine? even a child can recognize the arbitrary nature of your sacred books.

they're just that. books.

an overwrought moral guideline from two millenia ago crafted most likely by a group of, well, zealots, who probably didn't like what they saw around them and felt compelled to make a change, no matter the externalities. certainly not a reason to kill anyone, or sacrifice anything, or totally skirt the bounds of reason and sanity.

this kid's got perspective, and is hipper to the game than about 97% of so-called "adults" at any given time. and the other kid's just as beast, even if he isn't much of a talker. and if a potent psychoactive hallucinogenic compound is what it takes to get you miserable fucks to turn around and quit your wacky ways, then so be it. lsd as a core component of the school lunch program then, eh? mild doses administered to the milk of every boy and girl. milk does a body good. acid does a consciousness weird.

i'd really like to have a sit down with these little fuckers, really trip the lights fantastic with them. i've blown blunts with two 78 year old men, so dropping tabs with 10 year old hippies doesn't seem so far fetched. a man can dream, can't he?

fuck warp records!

This is the 1stAveMachine-produced video for Warp Records artist Clark's single, TED, from the album, Body Riddle.

Little Skittle with a pony in the middle. eats ice cream off its belly in the hot noon sun. i like ice cream. i eat it in the bathtub sometimes, though i'm not s'posed to. might get electrocuted. i make my own ice cream. i don't trust ben and jerry after what they did to my animals. especially my munky. he is sooooo not chunky!

as a child, or rather, earlier in life, (as i still am a child in many ways; a lot of us are, despite appearances), i used to be really into insects. i had a veritable library of books on them, as well as numerous apparati for the collection of said insects.

we had an enormous dead tree behind the house and i would forage through the soft, bristling deadwood in the brutal summer heat, collecting various beetles (i almost forgot how to spell beetles; thanks john, paul, george, and ringo), flying things, "true bugs," salamanders, and the occasional mantis.

the city sent a crew to clear out that portion of those woods one year, and i became more interested in sports and twat than antennae and abdomens. so insects and i have a strained relationship these days. to say the least.

but i guess i should patch things up.

there's a billion of THEM for every one of US, and they've been here for 400 million years. probably be HERE for that long once WE are gone. if there's a HERE left that is.

big ups to 1stAveMachine for restoring my love affair with the insect.

Genesis Does! You-Can't-Do-This-With-Nintendon't! Genesis Does!

The system was the Sega Genesis video game console. The game, Michael Jackson's Moonwalker. The year was 1990, the beginning of the end.

the greatest bit of cross media marketing since the saturday night fever soundtrack.

the plot was as follows, courtesy of Wikipedia:

Mr. Big, an insidious drug dealer (which drug we can't be sure, but since it's 1990, let's assume crack), has kidnapped children for no apparent reason. Michael, in an effort to save(?) the children, goes after Mr. Big, and eventually discovers his plot to take over the world using a large laser cannon built on the Moon.

Each level begins with a small comic book-style presentation of the ongoing conflict between Mr. Big and Michael, intending to show a transition from one level's setting to the next. Sadly, however, these cut-scenes do not reveal any additional plot details.

At the conclusion of the game, more of the story is revealed:

"Mr. Big's evil plot has been foiled with the destruction of his deadly doomsday weapon - the gigantic laser cannon. And with his massive fortress reduced to cinders, he is no longer a threat to mankind.

"But what of Michael?

"All that is known is that he was last seen soaring away from the crumbling enemy stronghold, heading toward the distant horizon.

"And the children that he saved?

"Well...

"They're smiling, because deep down in their hearts, they know that Michael will return one day to share with them another wondrous and magical adventure."

The foreshadowing here is uncanny. "another wondrous and magical adventure?" if by this the game's producers meant a number of protracted and highly visible court appearances defending himself against boy-touching charges, then we gotta give em props. they were truly Seers!

"Genesis Does! You-Can't-Do-This-With-Nintendon't!" If you remember the song from the Genesis pre-release commercial, congratulations, you're just as big of a nerd as i am.

i wrote a letter to Sega when i was ten, offering them a product idea that would revolutionize gaming: putting the game cartridges directly into the controller, so you didn't have to get up to change games.

they sent a courteous form letter back, thanking me for my input, letting me down easy, and giving me a free subscription to some video game magazine. i'm pretty tempted to write another letter demanding a remake of this 1990 gem. not sure how well it would work out in '07, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

these are our heroes?

like mr. costello said, "When I was your age they would say we can become cops, or criminals. Today, what I'm saying to you is this: when you're facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?"

what is the fucking difference? we are all, at our cores, the same. funda-fucking-mentally identical, with slight variations that give us personality.

it is for this reason that i strongly reject the notion of society's so-called elite. certainly, this isn't a case of hateration. more like the acknowledgement of a simple fact: even the greatest among us is reduced to a sniveling, pants-wetting coward when placed into a dire situation, such as being sodomized with the barrel of a .50 caliber revolver by a madman in a mask.

these are but men.

these are but tiny, insignificant men in a grand, fucked up scheme that they could not hope to comprehend. not with all the time on the clock. not with a billion supercomputers and all the world's nerds.

that's why i hate the term expert. fortunately, the last few years have proven that experts don't know shit, other than that people refer to them as experts and thus they must puff out their chests and wear their glasses low on their noses and look down those noses at non-experts and go to the experts association convention every year in chicago. you get a nifty t-shirt at the end of the weekend.

bullshit.

only a pompous fool would feel comfortable with the label of expert.

but all this pales in comparison to my disdain for the celebrity. oh yes. particularly, the conspicuous, windbag-activist, douchebag celebrity, of which there is no shortage. pretty much everyone except johnny depp and jack nicholson.

but what does it say about the collective, the g.p., when we're all kissing these fucker's shitstained loafers? why should i be privy to what some actor is wearing/thinking/saying/doing/driving/eating/drinking/playing/fucking? they're just living, breathing props. i wholly agree with capote's view that even someone as "talented" as marlon brando was "as dumb as a post." any pathological liar or manic depressive can do this job. i've been told so by aspiring actors.

these people aren't offering us all that much. pretty much like paying for two hours of sex, then going home to our significant others. but we're sure as hell giving them our hides in return. fuck the bunny ranch, i'm talking 200k/hr in some cases.

we fucking love hollywood. we would fuck it in the mouth if we could.

and therein lies the comedy of our fame machine. a nation of dimwitted sycophants nebbishly fawning over the "stars" (and every bit of minutiae regarding their daily lives), then literally busting a nut when they "shockingly" fall from grace (see: Britney Spears). it's literally high school, only more perverse, which i didn't think was possible.

celebrities? experts?

these are our heroes? why not 95% of doctors, teachers, first responders, single parents, or community activists? i say 95% because as with any field, there are definitely hack doctors, teachers, first responders, single parents, and community activists.

i guess the reason lies in the fact that we do fucked-up priorities better than any country this side of the third world.

now fuck off. i'm gonna go watch E

on the count of three, rage!

i just returned from a casual springtime drive. it was going well until i pulled up to my second or third light. now this intersection is very poorly planned, so one has to take certain precautions before diving in. otherwise, you're going to get fucking hit.

so, being a veteran of this treacherous crossing, i wasn't in a rush to make my left turn. but someone was.

behind me, in a pollen-covered, green Ford Focus (which is fitting), two gay Santas wait impatiently. the driver (and presumably the "top," or man, in the relationship) wearing a silk, paisley-patterned button-down shirt that clung to his man-boobs.

the other wearing those enormous, flimsy black glasses they give geezers after an eye procedure. ridiculous.

two little old fairies, desperately in love with each other, awaiting the day when things would go beyond a mere civil union. the day when they could have that oceanside wedding they'd dreamt of for three decades. policymakers weren't moving quickly enough.

i wasn't moving quickly enough. fucker's leaning on his horn, visibly frustrated with my hesitance.

i'm not getting into an accident for you asshole. keeps blowing it.

my nerves are frayed after two minutes of this, and the sight of him throwing his arms up in disgust in my rear view mirror triggers some sort of feral response over which i have very limited control.

i calmly unbuckle my belt, my ears are wringing and the vision's gone all tunneled.

i step out, bound towards the Ford, and punch this asshole through the open window, right in the temple, much to the amazement of the both of them. and i keep jabbing until i literally can't lift my right arm. i'm panting; the most exercise i'd had in years.

the faces in the line of cars behind us are mortified and fascinated all at once.

unsatisfied with the inch-wide gash i've created just above his neatly trimmed left eyebrow, i pull this miserable fuck out of the car (all 300 lbs of him) with my good arm. for some reason his boyfriend unbuckled the belt.

he lands on the ground kinda funny, like some sort of prop, like a dummy. after a quick chuckle, i start kicking him in the throat, i mean really toeing him. he makes this guttural sound after each blow to his trachea. it's a funny sound, like a sound a muppet would make. like a sound Animal would make come to think of it.

i figure a good 10 minutes or so of kicking, with both legs, goodfellas-style. gotta throw your weight into it. exhausted and almost post-coital, i stare down his man-fiance, sweat stinging my eyes. he can't even look at me.

the next thing i knew, i was on the other side of the light, on my merry way, with the Focus about five lengths behind.

i wonder if that geriatric pansy knew how close he came to being on the news. i wonder if he knew that if this were L.A., he would've been shot through the heart with a crossbow pistol. twice. that's how they roll out there. fucken wild wild west.

so how was your day honey?

english motherfucker! do-you-speak-it?!?!

pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! cars don't backfire in staccato, and firecrackers don't resonate the way this did. yeah. pretty sure i heard gunfire. though i was in the twilight phase between full wakefulness and dead-to-the-world sleep. not to mention my recent hallucinogenic experimentation has activated some sort of latent schizophrenia, so i have been hearing shit from time to time. haha.

but this was unmistakeably real.

not too far-fetched either. about a decade ago, a student at nearby morgan state university decided to test-fire his newly purchased tek-9 (the number one gun in street crime; it actually says that in the brochure, like they're proud of that shit!?!) in a parking lot.

right next to the northeastern district police station. neighborhood association raised a big stink with the city council, blah blah blah, who fucken cares?

regardless of the precedent, this scared me shitless. sucking my thumb got me through the night.

god i love baltimore.