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

Politics, science, and how to keep sane

Jesus christ.
Politicians in this country sure can spew some bullshit. It's amazing to me how some of these stupid mother fuckers can be so fucking ignorant. It's like they choose to ignore the obvious and shoot logic to hell. I don't want to get topic specific, I'm not afraid what so ever that I can't completely stomp some of their practiced bullshit rhetoric, it's just that there’s so many fucking factors in each argument that I recognize that makes me a sane person, whereas they choose to ignore these factors and everything and so on. If you ever have any hope instilled for this or any country, hold that close and tight, but for fucks sake don't turn on CBS.

What would be the worldwide implications if no one lied and everyone spoke their feelings? We'd live in a world possibly more fucked up than the current one. I think we would find out in about five minutes that human nature is truly evil. Inside of all of us, inside the warm flesh and smiles, bouncing around like bunnies, there is a fucking evil solid black core that could burn through granite. I mean, consider this. Our bodies and being are simply extensions of primarily the brain, which is a product of greed. Every cell in the body cooperates with another for the benefit of the entire body but I believe that to be irrelevant. The blueprint, the operating system of a cell is DNA. The only purpose of DNA is replicate consume WIN. Self benefit. Survival of the fittest. So whether you like it or not (or maybe you've embraced it, you sick fuck. I like how you think. Lets get together sometime over a drink and some friendly neighborhood violence. How grandiose.) you are a festering programmed lump of greed. Self benefit, fuck the world, I'm trying to skeet all over place. The civilization of humanity is a complete myth. I'm not helping you climb the ladder, I'm busy climbing my own, and in all honestly I'll push your shit over when you're on the top rung if I can justify the benefits. Sickly breeding humans we are. Stupider and more greedy were getting by the minute and yet were breeding and creating more intolerant whining children at every fucking tick of the second hand. The wise are going crazy and dying off, written off in pathetic heartfelt eulogies across the land and they're being replaced by scrubs I tell you. An irreversible generation of waste we are.

Goddammit have I made any sense? Do I even care? Here I am sitting at my fucking computer making no difference in anything bitching about god knows what and when. I'm just waiting for next moment in life that grabs me by the wrists and slaps me in the face and says boy this is the essence, this is the shit life is all about. A couple weeks ago the stuff that was most gripping for me was some real hard, scary dangerous shit. But those habits are being kicked to the curb slowly (slowly) and life is becoming more about subtle moments. Seeing a hot girl and wanting to fuck her for example. Thinking about when life was great in the past. Some bullshit childhood memory when everything was perfect in your little microcosm of an existence. Hearing some lick or two of brilliance inside a song. Hearing some mother fucker play guitar like his momma just died makes hot blood pump to the center of my head and just makes me forget about all the pain, agony and hatred that consumes all the so called good left in the world.
So what the fuck. Happiness is a bold faced lie and just builds you up to fall farther when shit does crumble. Happiness is a motherfucker but it's great. And darkness is the essence, the truth, reality but it's no way to live. Too much darkness and you'll blast your head open with the Makarov you keep in your closet. Love is torturous and loneliness is the motherfucker of all motherfuckers. The best way thing I can think of, at least what to do to keep sane is to mix pleasure with the sickest most disturbing shit I can fathom. When I'm having a nice intelligent conversation with someone, I smile and nod to tell them everythings great, but I'm really thinking about killing endangered animals with a spiked club and getting blood all over my pants. When I enjoy the serenity of wilderness I remind myself to think of dousing gas all over it and burning it to the fucking ground then laying down and doing drugs on the ashes. When I'm in the intimacy of an extremely intense sexual experience I think about cutting babies open, stepping in dog shit and planes crashing. No survivors here. Its the same story as last week when little Johnny got drunk and crashed his parents Benz into a goddam tree. You knew he couldn't handle it and you gave him the fucking keys anyway. Nice job. Now go masturbate to crummy internet smut and spread your fucking worthless seed into a napkin so nothing good ever comes of it.

I hate you.

Paul
1-31-07 11:17 pm eastern

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