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

the devil and paris hilton: hands down the most poignant thing you'll read about the miscarriage of justice that is the paris hilton saga.

this was the first picture of Paris i ever laid eyes on. i remember thinking, "what a piece of ass? who is this chick?" what a difference a sex tape/slew of reckless driving incidents/utterance of racial slurs/reality series/probation violation/premature release/courtroom sobbing episode makes.

i guess that head wasn't right. a little too much tooth and not enough tongue, perhaps? because fuck knows that back during the middle stages of all this, at least the judge caught a domeshot from young Ms. Hilton. or else we wouldn't be where we are today.

but, as i'm sure you've heard, our lengthy national nightmare has seen its temporary resolution. and already, the denouement is proving to be hilariously tragic. apparently, prisoner 90210 (you like that don't you motherfucker? of course i stole it!) is not eating or sleeping. she's also been doing a lot of praying apparently.

hunger strike? daily prayers to Mecca? such a beacon. such a ray of light that lass is. a display of determination and self-discipline not seen since Martin Luther King penned his Letters From Inside a Birmingham Jail.

or maybe it's just a healthy serving of simultaneous withdrawal, with a heavy helping of desperation gravy, ladled on nice and thick. did you ever think of that? yeah, that's it. withdrawal. she's freaking out man! jonesing! chronic withdrawal symptoms, on account of the plethora of drugs Ms. Hilton is clearly addicted to. dope sickness is no laughing matter people! though according to Reuters, her shrink has been giving her "psychoactive drugs." you call them psychoactive, i call them Naltrexone and Antabuse.

every step of this seems to have been a slap in the face to the "ordinary American majority."

"'Mom, Mom. It's not right,' she wailed as she was led out of the courtroom. Her mother, Kathy Hilton, also sobbed."

what the fuck? it's amazing how distraught she and her mother have been (mother sobbing; daughter is allegedly on suicide watch; what the fuck?), given the fact that millions of mothers have seen and will see their sons and daughters dragged off in cuffs and jumpers knowing that they won't see them ever again, much less in three weeks.

it doesn't anger as much as it saddens. but along with this being a manifestation of the importance class plays in our judicial system, this is an embodiment of the American Individualist ethos. surely not exhibited solely by the hyperwealthy.

fuck walking a mile in your shoes! i wouldn't be caught dead in that Payless trash!

yet it goes without saying that the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps," "i got mine, you get yours" state of mind has done more harm than good, and quite frankly, is outmoded. has been for generations. with diminshing exception, empathy has all but vanished from the American sociopolitical landscape. and we're seeing that in, among other cases, Paris's bitchass reaction to a class-blind, functioning justice system.

as far as the development, i wasn't indoors to see the Paparazzi earning their keep in front of the Hilton home the other day. but i have to wonder why formerly respectable mainstream media outlets felt that news of a spoiled slut socialite being rightfully remanded to the L.A. County Sheriff's custody was on par with say, 9/11 or the Invasion of Iraq or the VT shootings. or for that matter, the Battle of Los Angeles 15 years before. interrupting my stories for this shit? oh fuck naw.

have we fucking gone mad! someone certainly has.

before entry, paris said that she was going to "serve her time the right way" and serve as an "example to young people out there." good talk Paris. because if anyone's going to serve as an example around here, it's going to be you. teach these girls how to go out there and be somebody. or do somebody. a lot of somebodies. rich somebodies.

an example.

that worked out. surely money alone didn't lead to this delusion, though it most certainly helped. no. the prime suspect in this murder mystery is you. and me. and those we know and love. and those we don't. keep paying attention, keep giving yourself to this, and this is what's going to happen.

i can't really say that i'm glad she's back in jail. not because i sympathize, but because "back in jail" should not even have been a topic of discussion here.

in a state where the "3 Strikes" mandate is constantly fucking up the lives of (Brown and Black) people throughout California, crowding its jails and straining its budget, and given LAPD's repugnant, yet rightfully earned, reputation, you'd think this would be the last thing the judicial system there would allow for.

our need to feed on this foolishness begs a question. one of cultural norms. one that many of us won't be alive to see the answer to.

considering that half a century ago, Elvis gyrating his hips was regarded as obscene by the troublesome and damning American concensus, and given the no holds barred media clime of "today," (i.e. "One Night In Paris" being Ms. Hilton's "big break") where are we headed next?

in the next 50 to 100 years, given that planet Earth isn't more like planet Mercury, how drastically will we, and our sensibilities, (d)evolve culturally? anything goes, maybe? a full hour of "Monkeys Fucking Kids with a Wide-Angle Lens" anchoring NBC's highly prized "Must See TV" Thursday night lineup?

regardless of what "tomorrow" brings, i guess the most comforting message for both Paris and a sickly American mass would be that Hope Springs Eternal. we're gonna get through this babydoll. just gotta know we can.

i guess i'll hold that message dear to my heart should i ever be sentenced, YHWH forbid. maybe i'll pull a Wayans Brothers and hire some Hollywood makeup artist to transform me into a white broad. that seems to be my best hope for this situation, eh? wish me luck.

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

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...