Sunday, June 17, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino part 2: the cycle of life. and a lot of piss

We stumbled into the casino like drunken seniors on the last day of high school. I was immediately hypnotized by all of the flickering lights, grinning in wonderment like a simpleton taking his first shower. Oh, how I enjoy anything shiny and a lot of. I also have ADHD so go figure. The other thing I noticed was the army of old people plugging change into machines, moaning and spending their kid's inheritance, waiting for death like defiant, bored teenagers. I myself look forward to getting old (if that happens) and wearing jeans and t-shirts that say ridiculous things like "I'm vegan AND racist" and recounting to whomever how I "once ate so much pussy, I had to unbuckle my belt and take a nap in a lazy boy." I'll be the old man who farts as loud as he can in public, grinning and shaking my head at you as you turn to see who could possibly be so rude.

I'm not much of a gambler, but I was called by the sweet siren of the slots, flickering lights and all. I slid one quarter into the beast, pulled down it's arm, watched as it's eyes rolled back into the same color and shape and finally cry out as I pulled $100 from it's belly on the first try. Yes. I magically turned 25 cents into 100 fucking dollars. Which of course meant that I was going to magically turn that into beer and whiskey.

We found our way to the auditorium which was surprisingly small with cafeteria style seating. I ordered us a round of whiskey and beer and continued to do so til the $100 was gone. Shortly after Bobcat had begun, 2 things of significance occurred, the first being some asshole under the influence decided to heckle him, and the second being holy shit I had to piss. I will concede that I have a bladder the size of a squirrel's and once I tap the seal, it's on. Although drinking a beer every 15 minutes also creates some pressure that's not ordinarily present. Now, being lazy, drunk and a dude-and by dude I mean having a wiener which allows dudes to piss pretty much anywhere quite easily-I decided to piss in my empty glass under the table. This system proved infallible, and as I filled each empty glass, so did the hatred in my heart for the heckler.

As Bobcat performed, batting down each annoying interruption (arbitrary questions such as, "where is your wife, Bobcat?"or just yelling out nonsense-anything to distract the show because "Daddy made poo-poo owie" or whatever reason he needed attention in a public forum) by the asshole seated in front of us, I decided I would do some batting of my own. The plan was simple: after the show, Brian would walk up to the heckler with a full glass of my urine and I would "accidentally" bump into him, soaking him with the seeds of piss he'd sown. However, our muscle control and coordination were sorely weakened by the copious amounts of ingested alcohol, and I basically fell into Brian who basically fell into...the dudes girlfriend. Her shirt was completely drenched-even her hair would not escape the yellow rain of revenge. So we chose the only reasonable option we had-we ran.

We grabbed a case of beer from off-sale, as we clearly hadn't had enough to drink, and hopped into the barf-filled flaming van, laughing hysterically onto the freeway like a pack of hyenas.

"A good hearted woman in love with a good timin' man."

As we pulled into the alley behind our house, an object appeared before us, laying there like a sacrificial lamb. It was a sofa, caught like a deer in the headlights, left to fend for itself in the cold, cruel world by some heartless home departers. As harsh as it seems, sometimes the only humane referendum is to put an animal down and in this instance, it was the only choice we had. I glanced over at Heath and saw something I hadn't seen before-it was the eye of the tiger. The tears come quick to us both, as the realization washed over us. I offered my hand and as he took it, turned his attention to the ghastly task at hand and floored it.

By the time we hit the couch, we were going a good 50 mph, and I can honestly say, my brothers and sisters, it never knew what hit it. The front end went up and over the beast, launching us skyward as if we were it's chariot to heaven. I could hear the narration of Waylon Jennings in my head, wondering "how the good ol' boys were gonna get out of this one" as the van came slamming down on the concrete. What was left of the carcass had become trapped between the front and rear axle and a shower of foam and sparks danced in the air-a dazzling and bittersweet display of the cycle of life. As the back end rolled over what little was left, we held each other and took solace in the knowledge that the sofa was in a better place.

And then we all totally blacked out.

Monday, June 4, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino. My only references to Bobcat were Police Academy II and the fact that he opened for Nirvana, which is unique only to Bobcat. I don't think Steve Guttenberg was ever asked to open for Nirvana. In fact, after several Police Academy sequels and Short Circuit, the request Steve Guttenberg got the most was probably "dude-could you just knock it off?" And whatever assholes are asking for "Three Men and a Bride" should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. Actually, that's kinda harsh because more than likely my mom is one of those assholes. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson and Steve Guttenberg? What mom wouldn't want to be passed around like a doobie in that trifecta of machismo? Crap. That's a horrible image and I apologize for any discomfort it may have caused you-unless of course you're into it-then shame on you, mister. Man-this shit got derailed and fast.

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino.

At this point in my heathen career, I was reaching the pinnacle of savagery, sustained by the attributes and traits it requires. Like the saying goes, "young, dumb and full of cum." Except instead of cum, I was filled with bad ideas and no filter whatsoever - the last person you'd want to be in public with. I was also at the age where a hangover was more of an "owie" or a "boo-boo." Not like present day where it feels like I gave myself terminal cancer in one evening and need to summon my family into my bedroom for last goodbyes, or make sounds and smells on the shitter the next morning that would compel the good samaritan to call an ambulance. No, this was the spring of my youth as an aimless, angry lunatic who was determined to make partying into a career, well before I would fathom limitations, and anyone divergent was a total dick. I also had congenial allies with bad ideas of their own and we totally fuckin' partied, mang.

One such friend, we'll call him "Heath", was the owner of a Ford Econoline that he had smartly painted black with flames.

Hello, trouble.
This was the go to vehicle for getting pulled over and doing the sobriety test in your underwear, getting searched and thrown in jail for a miniscule amount of weed, spending the night in a ditch after filling it with instruments after a punk rock show, and so on. Chances are if you were getting into this van, you were shit-blasted or well on your way.

We stopped at the liquor store for party favors. Our beer of choice back then was J. Ruppert's, the reason being it was $7 for a case. Now, when a beer company sells a case of beer for $7, they really can't expect it to be consumed responsibly by those who know when to say when, unless it was "when are we gonna get another case of J.Ruppert's? I'm not yet blacked out." We certainly didn't drink it for it's full body and aftertaste-you don't use a beer bong to luxuriate in the flavor of shitty beer. You suck it down like the world's gonna end and start making poor decisions. Buying a case of beer for $7 seemed almost miserly, so we bought 2.

The mud-sprayingest of cheap beer

We picked up our friend and fellow heathen Brian and were eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin' and gonna do what they say shouldn't be done, whoever said that. They sound like total dicks. This was when drinking and driving seemed downright hilarious. Even in the face of death you would've offered him a beer and a ride. As the sun went down, so did the beer. We made our way to the casino,  basking and baking in the ignorant glow of guileless youth. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, we were pretty much hammered, having drained our munitions down to a few strays. The bad idea of shot-gunning one last round seemed genius in it's simplicity, and we were all seasoned veterans in the appreciation of bad ideas. After showing our beers who the boss was, something happened to Heath that occurs after ingesting too much, too quickly on top of too much already-he barfed. And since he was the one who had been driving, he barfed all over and through the steering wheel, onto his shoes, and it's final resting place on the floor mat. This was met with teary-eyed laughter and hearty approval. After surveying the damage and cleaning off his shoes, Heath blurted out the only reasonable response to the situation: "Fuck it." Yes, fuck it indeed.

That's when things started to get out of hand...

COMING SOON-part 2 in which gambling and urine lead up to the destruction of property.

P.S I can't find J. Ruppert's knickerbocker beer so either they don't make it anymore or we drank all of it.

Friday, April 13, 2012

the dancing diarrhea fountains of las vegas pt 2: poop-fist packs a powerful punch

Poop-fist is exactly what it sounds like: a fist made of poop punching it's way out of your butt. Sure, you can fight back-maybe even last a couple rounds for show-but poop-fist will always win. Poop-fist is the undefeated heavyweight champion and that day it was working my butthole over like Rocky Balboa on a side of beef."Don't make me laugh", I begged as I scooted my way towards some bushes. Jeremy was of course laughing hysterically at my predicament and I thought even Kenny Rogers-who knew when to hold 'em-could never hold back this tsunami wave of beer batter. I made the lethal mistake of laughing, displacing enough muscle control from my brown star, and the floodgates opened up.

Within seconds my underwear was filled to capacity-a good 4 pounds. A second wave pushed the standing room only crowd over and out of my shorts, hanging onto my legs and stage diving onto my shoes. Without mercy or remorse, poop-fist was literally beating the shit out of me. I finally got behind the bushes and pulled off my pants, trying to find something to clean up with. Jeremy's laughter by now had reduced him to tears and as he watched me, pissed into the bushes. But he who laughs last doesn't always laugh alone. As his giggling got the best of him he became another victim of poop-fist's victory "streak."
"Someday bro, we're gonna shit our pants together" "Whatever man, let's just party"

"Holy shit", he cried out as poop began falling out of his shorts. He ran over next to me and repeated the same drill as we both spider walked over some rocks, spraying mud without restriction. The voices of hikers were heard in the distance and I wondered what would befall us if we were caught. 2 grown men porky pigging it(shirts but no pants)in a national park cleaning shit off our legs with what little was left of our underwear next to what looked and smelled like someone had gutted a pig. It was so unreal, I felt like I was having an acid flashback. It was hilarious, but also terrifying. Plus the fact that our wives were awaiting our return from our little adventure.

We wiped up the worst spills with what whatever untainted scraps of our underwear was left and then put our poopy shorts back on. It was a huge bummer. "The coyotes are gonna eat well tonite", Jeremy remarked. 'Yes they are', I thought to myself as I glanced down at the carnage left behind. "Damn the 'nam!", I cried out as I fell to my knees. "Damn the 'nam!" We embraced on the ground and wept as we looked upon our fallen brothers before beginning the long task of giving them a proper burial.

Oh-and then 6 months later I was totally divorced. Party.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

the dancing diarrhea fountains of las vegas pt.1

Before we begin this mystical journey together I would like to point the sad fact out that I no longer need to spellcheck the word "diarrhea." This here yarn I'm about to unfold is a luckless hand to be laid, and Kenny Rogers ain't around to advise through song. Let's just say shit got real ugly.

For those uninitiated to the bottomless debauchery of Las Vegas, I like to say that Vegas is to heathens what Africa is to black people-it's the motherland. During the day Vegas looks like the the Mall of America gave Donald Trump a blow job and then barfed up its guts into the desert-giant, corporate hotels covered in jizz. However, at night with all the overstimulating and hypnotic neon, it's like a giant midway for ne'er do well adults to be "naughty" and set fire to their money and inhibitions.

I arrived in the a.m. with my then wife(I was married once-whoops)to meet my best friend(we'll call him "Jeremy") and his wife at the time(double whoops)and was rather disgusted at the giant monument to western capitalism and greed. After we learned we could drag 12 packs of beer around and smoke anywhere we pleased, I immediately lost my moral compass and we indulged our heathen tendencies, almost to a point of self-reflection, and pretty much figured 'fuck it-let's puh-puh-puh-party.'

The days were spent with the wives doing tourist activities and behaving like civilized adults until they eventually got sleepy. Then we'd give the car-keys to our inner savages and say, "have at it, dickholes!" and drink and gamble til the awful and unforgiving sun came up, retreating back to our hotel rooms for maybe 2 hours of sleep. And by "sleep" I mean "being unconscious." Wake up, eat ancient Greece-sized portions of MSG filled buffets and repeat.(Weird side-note: in some casinos they get bummed if you swear. I know-that's weird, right? This was mentioned to us at a black jack table around 5 am to which Jeremy responded, "you're fuckin' kiddin' me?" to which they responded by calling security.)

So after 3 days of buffets and 3 nights of heathenry it was time to leave the city for some more tourist bullshit. It was time to go to Red Rocks Canyon. (Oh-and if yer ever in Vegas get the kobe beef bloody mary at the MGM. Holy shit-it's like drinking a steak.)We stopped for big coffees on the way and began some ol' fashioned trash talking about how that canyon better be deep as we planned to fill it with irresponsible amounts of diarrhea(no spellcheck-holla!)brewing from the irresponsible amounts of alcohol and buffet food we'd ingested.

As we pulled into the park we saw that the tourist info building was closed and man, I really needed to take a shit. The restroom was also closed but I figured I could hold it for awhile. We pulled up to a scenic view point with a trail leading into the canyon. For some reason our wives(oopsy daisy)were wearing high heels along with dresses that weren't exactly hiking friendly so we decided to go down together, leaving the women behind in hopes that the men would return-possibly with food. Wow-things got kinda western. Anyways, as we began the descent, poop-fist landed it's first blow...

COMING SOON-part 2 of this epic adventure in which shit gets ugly and the rather self-explanatory "poop-fist" is explained.

Friday, March 16, 2012

10,000 views celebratory blog blow-out extravaganza featuring a grab-bag of random horseshit

Let's start this shindig right by blowin' some shit up.

Holy shit that makes me happy. I've watched this over and over and man does it never get old. Never ever.

Over 10,000 people have now viewed my blog, many of which I'd assume they wish they hadn't. I'd like to delude myself into thinking that my name alone would be enough for thousands of people to scour the Internet in search of my prose, but that would be a huge load of horseshit. I've brought in, like, maybe 2. No, over half of the poor souls who have been tainted by this blog(a colonic for your sense of decency, as described by a friend)have been mercilessly misled here by one Mr. Stevil Kinevil.

Well guess who's watching you and possibly jerking it?
Not only has he gone out of his way to support my horseshit blog, he will also indulge my whining whenever I phone him, crying with a diaper filled with existential crisis. I'm also lucky enough to call him a good friend. And an asshole when we've been drinking. He once whacked my helmet so hard my head rang. After I refused to hit him back he derbied me into some bushes to even it up. I also attempted writing "I eat poop" on his forehead since he broke the golden rule and passed out with his shoes on. The time we've spent together in the physical world has been limited, but to quote Linda Hamilton at the end of Terminator, "in the few hours we had together we loved a lifetime's worth." For those uninformed, check out all hail the black market often, and at least buy a sticker, for shit's sake. To borrow a page from Stevil, I'm toying with the idea of adding some merch. I'm sure there's a heathen bike slob or three that would appreciate a "KNOW BON SCOTT, KNOW AC/DC-NO BON SCOTT, NO AC/DC sticker and as those in the know remember, I used to co-own a t-shirt shop which became a medium to express myself via textile, so some sweet threads may be available as well. Some examples:

Yes-heathen haw.
Pretty self explanatory
Triple down in moose knuckles town
Bon, could you cover up those moose knuckles for once? Thank you.
Oh-and check out the new shirt at Stroker Ace for all you Minneapolitans:

So there's that. I was also toying with the idea of utilizing AdSense to maybe make a little spare change on this here blog. Of course my knee-jerk punk rock reaction to this was, "fuck that shit-that's the man, man!" cuz we all know being punk rock means being shit-ass broke and indignant. Luckily, google made the decision for me:

Hello John Schreiner,

Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.

We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.


- Inappropriate language


Further detail:

Inappropriate language: We've found that your website contains content
that isn't in compliance with our program policies. We don't allow
websites with excessive profanity or potentially offensive content to
participate in Google AdSense.

Potentially offensive? That's almost insulting! This blog is totally offensive! Oh well. See? Fuck that shit-it's the man, man!

So far we've covered a wide range of broad topics such as the difference between drinking cold and hot diarrhea, drawing a pentagram with dick blood, blood in your stoolblowing up paint cans, the moose knuckles of Bon Scott, slow cooking a rump roast in a dutch oven, and my undying love for the Love Boat and all things 1970's.

Sweet gift courtesy of Sarah Johnson

And who could forget my dead grandpa's cock? Speaking of which, here are some amazing search keywords-misspellings and all-that resulted in showing this site:
*in the back-end of blogger you can see where traffic comes from, referral sites, views, search keywords, etc.

"choking grandpaw with my cock"
"cock grandpa cock"
"cum fraom grandpa"
"grand pa cocks"
"i dick my grandpa"

The ironic thing is compared to the rest of the sites those search words pull up, mine is pretty tame. Lately, the entry "my grandpa's cock" has taken off like a rocket. Pun intended. I honestly don't know what I'm doing with this blog thing. I basically stir the awful thoughts in my head, poke the gag reflex in my poor taste, and then barf it out onto my keyboard. I will continue to do this with greater frequency and as inspiration strikes. Speaking of which, to me this is the definition of bringing it. I could give 2 shits how popular these guys are now or that pitchfork media sucks their cock with every album. This is just an honest performance that made this heathen well up the first time and gives me goosebumps with repeated viewings. 

I'm just fucking with you. Here's the real deal:

Dude, even Letterman is stoked afterwards. 

I would also like to give quick shout out to my good friend Nicole Clemetson who has been sweet enough to photograph this dirtbag, giving me the head shots that have allowed me to win such roles as "wolfman on pcp", coming soon to something somewhere. She has also graced the cover of the Portland Mecury of few times now and as I like to say about Portland, it's like moving into Whole Foods. I would also like to thank my good friends that have braved possible tarnish after sharing my posts as well. Lastly, I would like to thank you, the person reading this right now. You are a horrible person for being here and I love you for it. To quote the late, great Bill Hicks, "it's just a ride."

Thursday, February 23, 2012

take this job and shove it

"I came in about the sign," he said with little confidence. "Have a seat-I'll go get Riley," was barely muttered from a bored waitress. He recognized the look. He hardly registered as little more than breathing meat in her eyes. Get fucked, Judge Judy, he laughed to himself. You wouldn't know dick if it was balls deep in your dull existence. He sat down at a table to await the arrival of Riley, a faggot name if he'd ever heard one. 

Why do I do this? Oh yeah-fucking money. Blood pooled in his warming fingertips.

A man barely in his 30's approached, the smell of stale judgment kicked up in each step, looking at him like the asshole that knows the twist-ending to the movie. He sat down across the table from him, wrapping his hands around each other like spooning lovers who'd lost it years ago. 

"So you're a bartender, eh? What's the difference between a Merlot and a Cabernet?" he asked, barely masking his sarcasm.

"Well, Cabernet is actually a good wine, while Merlot is merely a gateway to better ones," the old man answered. Hot worms burrowed and made their way down his fingers.

Riley wasn't amused. He knew the old man was just gonna waste his time and from the looks of him, he had applied the same horseshit technique to his own worthless existence.

"What's the difference between a lager and an ale?"

The question hung in the air like stale cigarette smoke. The old man had heard enough. His hands were on fire. With little thought he thrust his right arm out with his index and pinkie fingers extended, throwing the horns like some rocker kid at a metal show. His digits went deep into Riley's eye sockets and he was surprised at what little resistance the eyeballs fought back with. What appeared as a mixture of blood and semen ran down his face where a look of disdain and loathing had laid earlier. It was a vast improvement. 

The waitress, still bored. 

He reached under the table with his left arm and got a strong grip on Riley's equally worthless cock and balls. As he yanked off Riley's manhood, he realized it was probably the most action they'd seen in years. He held the bleeding cock over the table and in a circular motion began drawing a pentagram with blood. As he put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, two small demons arose from the middle, grinning big yellow with rotten teeth. Without so much as a thought, the old man handed Riley's bone-wand over like a baton to the knowing demons. They shared the booty in one hand, held their free hands in each others, and began doing a ring-around-the-rosy before diving back into the pentagram and straight into hell.

By the time they reached Satan, he was in mid-stroke. He grabbed Riley's cock with his free hand and pulled it over his own like a condom and climaxed, filling and expanding Riley's four times larger and into the shape of a baseball bat. "Now get lost, ya crazy fucks!" Satan winked. "The devil's work is never done but goddamned if I'm not enjoying it!"

The demons arose again from the table and began beating what was left of Riley's head like a pinata with his herculean cock that was now eternally hard with the devil's seed. The scene played out like a child's joyous birthday celebration except for the fact that the pinata was Riley's stupid head. And the stick was his cock filled with Satan's load. And the kids were demons. And so on.

The old man almost felt regret.

The waitress, still bored.

"What's the difference between a lager and an ale?"

 Riley's voice was much louder this time, the question posed with contempt.

"Who gives a solid fuck?" the old man cried. "Whiskey is all a man needs, you fucking pussy!"

He was up and out the door before Riley could respond. The wind was cold and ambivalent as he made his way down the street. His disgust with himself was in fierce competition with his disgust for Riley, as if locked in a thunder dome death match. Two men enter, one man leave, he laughed to himself. The sign up ahead was more inviting. "Happy Hour-6 til close!" it called like a sweet siren. He sat down at the bar and ordered a whiskey. "The devil's work is never done but goddamned if I'm not enjoying it!" This time he laughed out loud.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

the northern lights as seen from the deck of the love boat

One of the luxuries I enjoy most in my horseshit existence is watching "The Love Boat" and drinking shameful amounts of beer. Seriously. You could put me in a basement with every episode along with a fuck-ton of Coors and no one would ever see me again. And I would be beyond happy. Like a joyful version of "Leaving Las Vegas." Anyone could come visit as long as they knew we would just watch "The Love Boat" and suck down Coors like 2 dollar whores in a beer guzzling contest. There would be intermissions that would include eating steaks, listening to 70's soft rock compilations, and discussing Gopher's failed yet comical attempts at getting laid, but then right back to "The Love Boat" and beer swillin'. Its a very strict and paradoxical regimen of being completely irresponsible with your very existence. Of course there'd be anecdotes like, "did you see Isaac in that Wattstax documentary?" Or, "Jesus-Captain Stubing has a mighty bodonkadonk." However, the sad fact that Gopher went on to become  a republican senator can never be broached or you will be banned. 

"Republican? Bitch, are you fo' real?!"

I would probably lose most of my friends and family but you know what? Fuck 'em. After all, I've got enough Coors to kill a small town and every episode of "The Love Boat." Oh yeah-and the steaks and 70's soft rock compilations. But wait-you wanna bring over some Burt Reynolds dvds? You've got "White Lightning" and it's equal sequel "Gator"? That's cool. We can party. Oh shit-yer also bringing "Every Which Way but Loose" and it's equal sequel "Any Which Way You Can"? Oh shit yeah we can party! In fact, I recommend watching both sets of these classics several times as drinking beer like the world's gonna end can make a man forgetful, and who'd wanna forget this scene from gator? Plus I'm always down to spend some quality time with Philo Bedoe and the gang, singing along with every Mel Tillis song from those glorious soundtracks. Shit-that reminds me of a special night.
                                                                     Segue music!
Listen to this as you finish the post. It helps.

The only time I've ever witnessed the northern lights was also one of the most magical. My good friend Bob had access to a cabin to which the likes of unfiltered heathenry rarely seen by mere mortals was bestowed upon. We totes fucked that fucker up. On this particular evening it was just the 2 of us, as most commoners on this hairy turd-ball of a planet lack the palette for the finer things. We boarded his paddle boat with only the nécessités: a ridiculous amount of beer and smokes along with our newly found friend, "tape buddy." Tape buddy was an old school hand-held tape deck with a built-in speaker that became our most valuable asset. The only tape we had with us had the soundtrack to "Every Which Way but Loose" on one side and "Any Which Way You Can" on the reverse. Of course. And did tape buddy ever complain as we continued to flip the tape over and over and over during this hours long marathon of binge drinking? Fuck no! He cherished every minute as we.

As we sang along to each song-even the Sondra Locke filler-we turned our gazes upward. At first it appeared to be headlights from the highway illuminating and advancing in the fog. Bob, being Captain Stubing to my Gopher, was the first to realize t'was the northern lights. I was like, "Holy sheep-tits!" or something. We eventually passed out, grateful in the knowledge that we shan't ever forget that enchanted eve. At least most of it. And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

know bon scott, know ac/dc. no bon scott, no ac/dc.

Whenever I hear the ridiculous proposition of "Beatles or Stones?" my instinctual response is, "That's easy. It's AC/DC, you lethargic bag of excrement." And when I think of AC/DC, I think of "Highway to Hell." And then I hear it in my head. And then I excuse myself from whatever arbitrary social engagement that I've just realized pales in comparison with the visceral thrill of engaging this record-even if several super models are fighting over my cock with their toothless mouths(which totally never happens)and get home and throw that motherfucker on the turntable and play it. LOUD. The snarling siren of Bon Scott boils my heathen blood, pumping it into my skull with each perfectly timed snare shot from Phil Rudd.  The sweet, trading licks of incestuous riffage from the brothers Young, pummeling and abusing while I beg for more like a battered spouse. The thunderous bass from Cliff Williams kicking my balls up into my abdomen. I wanna shove beer bottles into my eye sockets and drive a stolen car off a cliff, blood pouring from my eardrums and laughing hysterically the whole time knowing this ain't gonna end well. Just like everything else in this world.

The first time I saw just the cover of this seminal record as a young heathen, or "tweathen," I was mesmerized by the intimidating lot snearing at me, flaunting the fact that they were up to no good and goddamned if I didn't want to join them. The sound they created could put hair on a 3rd graders chest, filling his balls with jizz and mind with dangerous ideas. And that is what is sorely missing from the present day landscape of rock and/or roll: the element of danger. I want a band to scare me out of my whitebread, comfortable existence to follow through with some devil intuition that's gnawing away on my stomach like a starved ulcer. I wanna feel it in my gut, baby. Oh sure, the image of some contemporary rock star in tight, skinny jeans, ironic facial hair and distressed "vintage" jacket is awfully scary, but for all the wrong reasons. Bon Scott would beat their perfect, bleached teeth into powder with his hard cock and set their coiffed, bed head hair on fire with one glance from his maniacal eyes, lighting a cigarette off their unoriginal ideas land-fill of a head, without the courtesy of pissing the blaze out.
Now here is where I'm gonna lose some of you, especially if you're daft enough to think "Back in Black" is their first record. To my ears, Brian Johnson's voice sounds like the last fart beaten from a dying horse in comparison to Bon's. Now I realize the position Brian Johnson was put in and I'm not envious of the mammoth set of moose knuckles he was hopeless to fill, but he was also the flagship that sunk their good name into irony and self-parody. The cannons going off on "For Those About to Rock"? The album "Ballbeaker"? The song "Cover You in Oil"? Sure, it's all done in knuckle draggin', dick swingin' fun, but Bon was more tongue and cheek, a dirtbag street poet. When he snarled about the holy trinity of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, he'd make you nervous cuz the motherfucker meant it. Now, I'm in no way condemning them for continuing on after his death. I get it. "Back in Black" is a great tribute to the man. I just don't wanna listen to it. I will, however, listen the shit out of "Highway to Hell." And now I can hear it in my head. And now I'm gonna throw that motherfucker on the turntable and play it. LOUD.

See you in hell.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

puh-puh-puh-party part deux: electric boogaloo

It was my last evening in Minneapolis and I was ready to run with the wolves. I'm not gonna lie to you people-I likes t' party. Shit-I even like just saying the word. Party. Puh-puh-puh-party. One thing I've learned after years of fine tuning my boundless heathenry to laser precision, coupled with the thunder of Thor's hammer, is that nothing goes together quite like beer and smokes. It's Willie and Waylon. Now add fire and explosives and brother, you've got yer four basic food groups. You've got The Highwaymen. So what do you get when you've got a shit-ton of cheap beer, fireworks, aerosol cans, a bonfire and a handful of savages approaching a black out? Well mister, you've got the perfect storm.

Now here's a handy tidbit for the neophyte heathen: cowboy hats are an awesome platform for launching bottle rockets. You know what else is awesome? Pissin' all over yer friends fence. But don't be a greedy fun-tick. Share this privilege of pure elation and let him finish the job.

However, the most joyful moment of unfiltered bliss is blowin' shit up. Blowin' shit up when yer loaded is like making out with a unicorn-it's magical! It's like grabbing life by the sack, shoving his balls up his ass and packin' 'em in with your hard cock-the ol' 2 shot musket job. Any problems you may be incurring fall like autumn leaves and drift away in the face of blowin' shit up.  If I had the choice between a blow job and blowin' shit up? Well, let's just say my girlfriend would never need to buy mouthwash again. Hell, let's blow some shit up.

Pissed on fence looks better in 'splosion lighting.


Thursday, January 5, 2012


Have you ever slow cooked a rump roast in a dutch oven? Well, after the holiday debauchery, the smelt and sweat coming off my body at night basically turned my bed into a crock pot. Reptiles warming their cold bodies on my heat rock shoulders would have melted and slid down over my back bacon like pads of butter. The perspiration my liver shoved out of my body, like some heathen play-doh not fun factory , soaked thru countless, unknowing t-shirts. A quicker picker upper massacre that would have made the brawny towel guy trade in his flannel for a sun dress. The sweltering temperature and moisture in my bedroom could have inspired a thousand Tennessee Williams plays. I was awoken in the middle of the night by some one calling out "Stella!" on the street below my window. The harsh and unforgiving swampland much like Florida's everglades, would have swallowed airplane crashes whole, the bodies never to be recovered. Basically, it was totes gross.

Dude-even my neck was drenched! What the shit is that about?  My body must have looked like those pod people from "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". Not to mention the weakened, stumbling brain cells scratching the air with their sad, T. Rex arms, re-enacting "Return of the Living Dead" and ironically moaning for "brains."

Oh yeah-and the farts. Sweet Jesus, the farts. Each one coming out hotter than the last, stoking countless cans of Coors coals, smelling like someone rolled a turd in butt-hair and fired it up like a doobie. Farts that smell so vile, you briefly forget you think they're hilarious. To quote the dude, "this is a bummer, man." Anyhoo, that's how you slow cook a rump roast in a dutch oven. Puh-puh-puh-party.