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

try getting an erection if you've been decapitated. just try.

having rejected aspirations for a humdrum suit-and-tie future some time ago, the wackiest possible career paths cross my mind as i ponder the trail ahead of me. after a conversation with dylan recently, it's become rather clear what my calling will be, my legacy to planet earth for centuries to come. horror porn.

makes sense really. i was raised on horror movies that scared me shitless and probably scarred my psyche significuntly. freddie krueger, jason, critters, leprechauns, candyman, aliens; these were my ernie and bert. lots of horrific, vivid nightmares (in technicolor) involving clowns and tarantulas and faulty carnival rides, among other things.

and besides, producing/shooting porn is definitely on my things to do before i go list. has been for years now. right up there with starting a police chase in la.

and it's not like there's not an audience for this niche. all these precious kids who think they're vampires or the devil or fucking charles manson, with the make up and the platform boots with lots of straps and buckles? they gotta beat off too ya know. and a flick with some hairless juicer jock and his bottle blonde, silicon infused, cokehead fucktoy doesn't really get them going i'm sure.

now while, like frank zappa, i can admit that i'm pursuing this alternative art form (yes, art form!) solely for money, i might concede that there's some personal fulfillment in this as well.

this genre is super visceral my friends. the guttural feeling you get while watching one of these is unforgettable. the one tape i've happened upon i don't recall the name of, but the center of the action was a decapitated body getting head from this gorgeous vampire in a barn (presumably a barn in transylvania), with blood squirting out of a sole artery like a water fountain with a faulty valve. in sync with his undying heart.

nevermind that an erection would be impossible with such profuse bleeding. but if you're thinking about that at all, you're not a customer.

so if you're out there looking for a start in the biz, but the san fernando valley makes your skin crawl, touch base with the anthropophagous beast. let's start an empire. maybe have you blow a zombie while he puts cigarettes out on your face or eats your brain or something. maybe play some industrial music in the background, dim the lights, spark some candles, throw down a pentagram or two. maybe shoot with a super 8 for that snuff film feel? let's do it. i'll make you a star.

Who Wants to Sleep In A City That Never Wakes Up?

Coming Soon: The Medgar Evars Talent Show Surprise Hour...

Street Thunder: Prerequisites, or, Why You're No Good For Us...

Have you ever awakened on a tuesday morning in hell, sun mocking you through filthy, curtainless glass, the inside of your skull being scraped at by 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 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? 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? 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? 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 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 a chair. We'd like to have a talk with you.


"Substance abuse is the cornerstone of beasting out." - Paul Pags

"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