we could do with some more poison.

24 nitrous canisters liven things up a bit.
Dr. No doesn't know the meaning of the word.
but i gotta ask, who's watching the money?
certainly not me...
must be the drunken master with the "Black Card."
tiger woods ain't got shit on Wii.
turns out electric ranges are great surfaces for cutting lines of amphetamines.
go figure.
high contrast.
nigh bombast.
weapons of all sorts, unaccounted for, lost and found, then lost again.
stallion insignia and the new London, a few mistook it for Hollywood.
this is why i put drugs up my nose.
toxic amounts of whatever you wanna call it babydoll.
but there's a thing called tolerance.
maybe you've heard of it, you fucking bigot.
lucrative contracts.
20 million dollars a year, yet still quite rife with fear.
use your inside voice please.
silent libraries make the world go round.
that and underaged, hairless vagina.
yeah.
Balthazar ain't just a river in Egypt dontchaknow...
multiple pee parties on the SoHo streets keep things interesting.
to be sure.
chill retardo, south beach Gallardo...
but last i checked, this wasn't Miami.
it was Monsignor Carlo's mojito bar.
it's friday?
jesus.
might as well go out nine nights in a row.
fuck a job.
fuck a class.
fuck a familial relationship.
fuck a credit rating.
new york city cops, they ain't too tart.
we'll leave that to the COUGARS.
the San Jose Cougars that is.
five-time FABBL champs.
mending a struggling relationship (or three) is cake.
trying to keep the bloody, tattered innards of your sinus cavity from spilling all over your slim-fit Ralph Lauren sport suit...
now that's a trial.
so let it be known, that from this day forth,
all men (and a select few lasses) shall dedicate every second of every day of every week to the Fight.
the rebellion against an entire epoch of woeful stagnation.
let generativity be your goal, and shall all your psychosocial dreams come true.
now fuck off, quit botherin' me ya twat!
can't you see i'm tryin' to find meself a straw?

TimeMachine Will Fuck You If You Have A Big Ass And Nice Tits And Pay Him Tribute.

and should their ill-shaven boxes fester in the high noon sun.

see these crooked fingers? they're the ones that's gonna fuck you tonite babydoll!

a doc on how beast the Libertines were/are. a perfect follow-up to the post below concerning the matter of Hinge v. Lion on Oil.

now note what dude says around 1'50" or so...

"And they were great to watch... they used to have little fistfights on stage, bang into each other, and they could barely hold it together in the music... it was great by the same token, cos' it was kinda unhinged ya know."

UNHINGED.

that's right motherfucker. but what am i even addressing you for? what's to be expected of a scene who's hardasses are best mates with Pete Wentz? sod off ya butty men. there's real work to be done here.

Fan Mail, Phun Mail, Can You Feel The Coke Hail?!?!

What hath these Lions wrought?

From the desk of "Hinge", chief proprietor of Asbury Park, New Jersey's 'The Saint.'

To Brooklyn rock band Lion On Oil,

"I'll be honest.
You guys suck completely.
One of the worst bands i've ever seen.
You probably shouldn't announce that you are from Brooklyn because you just don't represent Brooklyn very well.

"It's really not fun or funny watching a bunch of incredibly wasted guys barely make it through a set. You are un-professional, and have no idea how to behave in a club.

"Do yourselves a favor and get your singer and guitarist to rehab. And please, don't contact The Saint for any future gigs. We won't have you at our club ever again.

(and as it pertains to social networking site MySpace...)

"Why would you guys want to be my friend? I will say this... I think you have some really good songs, but, the way you behaved at the Saint last week was very very sad.

"Believe it or not, i've been in the music biz for 30 years. I've toured the world both as a guitarist and a sound man, so I think I have a pretty good perspective on things.
Seeing you guys incredibly wasted and hardly able to play pissed me and the rest of our employees off, and made us never want to have you at our club again.

"To me, it's a huge waste of time to have a band come out and pretty much waste our time and make a mockery of what we do. It was unprofessional and quite frankly sad.

"With songs like yours, you could probably have success, but you'll never get anywhere until you get your drinking and drug problems under control."

lovingly concerned,
Hinge XOXOXO

thanks Dad. sorry they're not the "hardcore" faggotry you're used to. haha.

Lion On Oil, huh? sounds like just the kinda band i need to get myself involved with. fortunately, i am. planning to move in with these fucks in about a week and a half that is.

you know, they said the same kinda shit about Captain and Tenille in their nascent years. so...



visit these "Brooklynite" fucks at their MySpace page.

and why not give Hinge a holler as well. and yes, that is the GEICO caveman as his profile pic.

and how perfect it is that the pic at the top is from their performance at The Saint. jesus.

Another Reissue: Originality is Dead. Lajos Egri Said So Himself. And That Was in 1942 motherfuckers!

have you ever awakened on a tuesday morning in your own private hell, sun mocking you through filthy, curtainless glass, the inside of your skull being scraped at by an agitated demon with an icy implement, simply because you've decided to "clean up" for the week?

is each week loaded with regretful incidents (usually involving the opposite sex) that secretly bring a smile to your face?

is your creativity flowing into new ways to cop rather than lucrative artistic ventures?

do you often find yourself selling things (TVs, DVDs, IPods, amps, guitars, stolen digital cameras) in sweaty desperation?

is the Kentucky Gentleman always at your side?

ever fallen flat on your face in a crowded American shopping hub, simply because you've neglected to feed the need for a few hours?

do you frequently find yourself succumbing to "rum fits?"

have you ever dreamt of being adopted by Pete Doherty?

do you enjoy the sensation of punching through glass?

is a gallon of cheap bourbon, some eightballs, a blowtorch, a couple of roided-up pitbulls, and a vintage stihl chainsaw your idea of a quiet night in?

are 'forced disappearances' and 'ransom negotiation' parts of your skill set?

do you see the speed limit as more of a suggestion than an enforceable law?

do you prefer intensive farm labor to a few quick sets at your local gymnasium?

have you ever pulled on dozens of car door handles on the way home with your mates from the pub, hoping that some hapless fuck has left his new 3-Series coupe unlocked?

are you considered reckless, irresponsible, or otherwise a danger to those around you?

do you entertain the notion of sending pipe bombs to MTV Headquarters?

can you take a punch?

can you take a bullet?

do you spend considerable portions of the day considering the best ways to pull off a bank robbery?

do you idolize 1989-1995 era Mike Tyson?

do you have a strong aversion to cameraphones?

are you trill?

are you constantly frustrated by the naivete, ignorance, and stupidity of those around you?

do you prefer 5.99 Zelko to anything on the top shelf?

is Hong Kong piracy in your near future?

have you ever beaten someone within inches of their life for no reason other than that you take orgasmic joy from the sight of bludgeoned flesh and shattered bone?

do you wish you could mastermind a heist rivaling Lufthansa, split to Bogata, and join the FARC?

do you consider marijuana an utter annoyance rather than a "hard" drug?

is at least one person after your life?

are you completely alienated from your family as a result of beasting out (or at least on the way)?

no?

kill yourself.

yes?

pull up that chair over there rhyme scheme jr.

we'd like to have a talk with you.


"Substance abuse is the cornerstone of beasting out." - No. 1 Sex Mouth

"Car bombs? Nice try pussy. Jager Bombs? Why not just watch Failure to Launch. Saki bombs? I'm not gonna say it, but you know what I'm thinking. No, no gentlemen, there is only one concoction sufficent for the manical substance cravings of Street Thunder: The Street Thunder Sawed Off. It consists of one shot of horse steroid, one shot of pure mexican black tar H, three lines of high grade cocaine, a vial of pcp, a bandana soaked in LSD (which you will be wearing), a fifth of Kentucky Gentlemen and a bench press set with three plates on each side of the bar. And the process? Pour the vial of pcp into the bourbon, drop your pants and prepare to intiate full bore beast mode: snort all three lines in succession and immediatly follow by chugging the entire bottle in under 10 seconds while your one friend shoots the steroids in your ass and your other friend fixes the H in your non-chugging arm. Finish the bottle, smash it over your head, rep the bar 10 times and then punch a woman in the face." - Dollar Bill

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!

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.