Finders-Keepers Fear the Reapers.

prologue:

Old Business: What did her pussy ever do to you?

New Business: What didn't her pussy do to you?

Q: When does it end?

(dramatic pause, mild inertia)

A: Sometimes it never ends.

Autobiographical for once.

In a day spent mostly trying to download the Kim Kardashian sex tape, a thing of beauty emerges but a few hours after sundown.

*Expose The Nose*

I sit atop my dais, shivering in solitude, leafing through the "Harvester of Sorrow" issue of Vice Magazine (procured from the Williamsburg American Apparel store during a cracked out excursion with TimeMachine; very cute footsoldiers working there, ps).

Though the cover and pages are unreasonably weathered (stained with the joys, sorrows and general heroics of all that have passed through Shooting Gallery Studios in the past three or four weeks), this is the first time I've made an effort to actually read the thing. Flagged long before this little reenactment of the that now infamous Seinfeldian vignette. Natch.

I arrive at the Guitar Center advert/"Vice Guide to Bands" bit, taking the time to read the bit on Chromeo's gear tips, internally decrying the ubiquity of the Vice/American Apparel hipster-industrial complex, when what should I see but a bit of terror. The beautiful blonde mistake, straight from the belly of the beast, in the home my mother raised me in.

A first. Honest.

There it is, a twenty-bag of Devil's Dandruff, lying dead before me, completely empty, at once a disaster and a blessing. What would possess me to tuck away a decidedly empty bag of flash deep within a magazine? The world may never know. All that matters is that we're here now, so there's no point in leaving just yet, yeah?

Sit your ass down and have a drink. We've got a lot to catch up on, yeah? The Killer in me likes the frosted side, but the Automaton in me likes the Killer in me. Go figure.

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.

i wanna take you to a gay bahhhh.

i learned from VICE TV today that gay guys have a deep aversion towards cologne. they, at least the leathermen among them, prefer "the natural smell of a man." i would think you would want to cover that shit up as best as was humanly possible, but what do i know? it's news to me, as during that torturous and sexual harrassment-filled year and a half working in the gay stronghold that was the IKEA corporate office here, i'd never heard such a sentiment. you learn something new everyday, huh?

and if you're wondering what all this leatherman noise is all about, no opie, i'm not talking about your dad's handy all-in-one, multipurpose tool. it goes a little deeper than that.

there's an explanation, but that dog's gonna have to hunt.

sorry.

no cushy and convenient youtube window. take it up with VICE. here's the hyphylink in case you wanna step your leatherman game up, and god only knows you do. plenty of new york leather bars, high-priced gay sex shops, erotic haircuts, hard house music, and the incomparable Baby Balls himself:
http://www.vbs.tv/player.php?bctid=686989475&bccl=Njg2OTc1NDcyX19FVEM=

p.s. i fucks with VICE TV, especially the "Shot By Kern" episodes. basically a middle-aged scumbag who artfully cons 19 year old girls into letting him take "tasteful nude shots." and who doesn't love titties these days; they make the world go round.

leathermen i guess.