The Gospel of Rock

Magnum Anvil: Little known fact, but Jesus Christ was documented as being a truly ace guitarist. Seriously! I looked it up! In the lost scripture known as the Extended-Adolescence Codex, Jesus chucks his day gig as a bazaar magician (“Hey, Paul, wanna watch me pull some loaves and fishes outta my hat?”) to hit the road with his band. They were called Nazareth, until they found out there was another band of that name, so they changed it to Nazareth UK. They were only so-so. Typical oasis band of the time. Decent shofar player, though, and Jesus really threw himself into it. Got a reputation as the hardest-working man in the biz. He’d play till his palms bled (his feet and side, too, which was weird). Graffiti started cropping out in the Roman outposts: “Jesus is God,” and the like. Chicks would swoon, and even the guys would brawl to touch the hem of his garment. There was a thriving trade in fake souvenirs–the platform sandals, the Shroud of Touring, etc–before he pulled a G.G. Allin and croaked it during a piece of performance art with a bunch of people looking on incredulously, wondering why he wouldn’t just shred and sing that “Do Unto Others” song that everybody liked so much. What a waste of talent, verily, verily. Yeah, Jesus really was the (Son of) Man, man.

Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 1:46 am  Leave a Comment  


Q: Louie Shakes walked north 17 blocks and west 13 blocks to his ex-wife’s apartment in Brooklyn. He stole $65.00 from the bitch’s crib, where he also did $217.89 in damage jimmying the door open, which she had to finance on her credit card at 19.75% APR. Louie then set off to score some crystal meth from Stoney Stone Smeagol. It cost Louie $4.00 for a bus ticket from his ex-wife’s to Stoney’s apartment, $21.60 for the porno mag, smokes and pizza he bought while waiting for Smeagol to show, $30.90 for the rock itself, and $2.90 for a blowjob from a desperate crack whore he met in the stairwell on the way out. She gave him a 40% discount because she couldn’t actually get him off. He then met some brothers throwing dice in Williamstown. Louie bet the money he had leftover from his score, and made a 215% profit. He gave half of this to the cop who busted the game and threatened to haul them all downtown. How much money did Louie Shakes take home?

A: Zero, because Louie Shakes does not have a home. But the wad of crumpled bills and change he had in his pocket after his very busy day bought him a Slim Jim (Tabasco flavored), a pickled egg, and two bottles of Thunderbird from Abudinemadji’s Corner Market in Queens, and he later found a recycling bin filled with nice, clean, fresh newspaper, on which he laid his weary head at 3:00 that morning, a sweet smile of satisfaction and success on his weather-lined, dirt-stained face. It was Louie Shakes’ best day ever! At least until the night-horrors came.

Published in: on March 9, 2010 at 2:31 am  Comments (1)  

Arrrrrrrrrrr: Lunch Pirates vs HMS Finance and Administration

Lunch Pirate Arrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrr matees, is it time yet?

Lunch Pirate Brrrrransonmissouri: Aye, look! That be a fella with a bagged lunch! I be hungry fer some cutter!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrrylchessman: Avast, ye scurvy lubber, what be ye name?

Bag Lunch Fellow Scrod: My name is Scrod. Please don’t hurt me! Just take my tuna sandwich! I don’t want any trouble!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Scarrrrrrrrod, eh?? By jiminy, e’s one of us! Arrrrrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrrylchessman: Arrrrrrrr!!!! Scarrrrrrrod!!! Great Lunch Pirate name!! Climb aboard, me boy! Take up the jolly roger and sail wi’ we!!!

Lunch Pirate Brrrrransonmissouri: Arrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! Wi’ we!!!

Lunch Pirate Arrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrrrr!!!!! Arrrrrr!!!! Arrrrrrr!!!!!

Lunch Pirate Brrrransonmissouri: Arrrrrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar?

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfranklin:
Seems slim pickin’s in Cubic Hell today, matees. Methingks we’ve overharvested these pitiful lubbers and need to sail to fresher climes, rich wi’ carry-in hot cuisine and three marrrrrrtini lunches!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrylchessman: Arrrrr!! To the Executive Harbor!!! Arrrrr!!! Let’s knock the bung out the rum barrel and commence to singin’ and dancin’!! Arrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Errrrrrr . . . . . . arrrr? Me seems to ha’e left the rum tun back at ye secret lunch pirate hideout, matees. A thousand parrrrrdons.

Lunch Pirate Brrrrrrransonmissouri: Ye great gapin’ idiot! How arrrrrrr we supposed ta’ sing and dance and have a jolly time if thar’s nae rum?!?

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar? I believe there may be some scotch up in the Vice Presidential Harbor. We’re not allowed to have it down here in Cubic Hell. It’s for the suits. Ar?

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration (shooting out of the fog and passing with a stone’s throw of the Lunch Pirate Ship): Ahoy there, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrr! Aye, we got yon pommy mustard. We’ll bring it on over to ye, if’n ye’ll pull asides us.

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration:
Good fellows, there! Pulling alongside, aye! Welcome aboard! Let’s strike up a jolly spot of background music to give good grace and atmosphere to our celebration! Wait . . . what’s this? That’s not mustard! Those appear to be sabers in your hands!

Lunch Pirate Chorus: Arrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Captain of the HMS Finance and Administration: Ye gods! Ye be lunch pirates! How could I have been such a fool!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Arrrrrr!! This music is horrendous, ye great gaping Vice Presidential ponce! It’s somewhere between Rush and Muzak! Arrrrr!!! It’s Kenny G! Ye gads, man! Aren’t there any girls on your ship? Hae ye no baws?

Redneck Dawg: Nuhsuh. Nuh baws heh. Assa bawwess ships. Ah hats it.

Executive Vice President for Sales and New Media Marketing: Ahsa gud rumz! Nah ah stAARRRvin, di’ zey no leave any muzztud? I sought we’s gon get muzztud?

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration: We were hornswoggled, Media. These lot are nothing but a bunch of scurvy lunch pirates.

Lunch Marines: What appears to be the problem here, gents? Shall we sing our theme song to remind you of our awesome Lunch Pirate killing prowess? Huttah!

From the halls of Montezoo-oo-ma
to the shores of Albany,
We will fight the lunchtime pi-hi-rates
on the air and land and sea.
First to fight for bag lunch lo-oo-sers
and the guys out at the trucks,
we are proud to take names la-ha-ter,
now lets get some pirate fucks!

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfrankin: Arrrrrrrrrr!!!!! They’ve caught up with! Turn tail! Flee!

Lunch Marines: We’ll chase ye round the world an’ to hell and back, ye scurvy dogs. Unhand those french fries! Drop the falafel and come out with your hands in the air!

Lunch Pirate Brrrrrransonmissouri: We’re scupperred, lads! Every lunch pirate for hisself! Disperse to the boats! Batten down the hatches! Always pee in the lee! Red right returning! Even red nuns have odd black cans!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrylchessman: Arrrr! How’d you know about me and that nun with the odd black cans? Did she speak!!

Lunch Marines: We know all your inner secrets, ye predictable thieving bastards! Avast!

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar? I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to do now. What does “avast” mean anyway?

Pirate Grammarian: “Avast” means “stop what you are doing.” Pretty simple stuff, really. Not like some of the other sailing lingo, which can get totally key-razy. Sailors use words like “fid” and “boom vang” and “clew” and “cuddy” and “gollywobbler” and “gunter rig” and “head knocker” and “lapper” and “luff” and “pushpit” and “screw” and “sheets” and “tang” and “trim.” It’s quite the verbal culture.

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrr . . . it’s no wonder we’re always horny when we come ashore after talking like that for months.

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrylchessman: And I thought that was from all the non-stop sodomy.

Pirate Chorus: Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!

Published in: on February 14, 2010 at 4:13 pm  Comments (1)  

I Often Dream of Bill Walton

Guy With a Dream: I’ve a recurring dream like once every six months that I can remember. It came again last night. I remember smoking up then playing basketball at a YMCA with Bill Walton on my team. So I get the ball and throw it to my teammate who puts in an easy layup. Then Bill Walton gets all up in my face saying “No! No! No! You pass to the passers, they pass to the shooters!” Then he makes some degrading comment about the smoke inhibiting my performance and puts someone else in instead of me. So I get pissed and walk out of the YMCA. Any dream analysts out there know what this could mean?

Karl Jung: The Bill Walton archetype commonly symbolizes one’s inability to shoot hoops while stoned on marijuana. So you need to sober up and work on three-point land. Cut out the middleman. That’ll show Walton.

Sigmund Freud: The marijuana cigarette you were smoking symbolizes a penis, and Bill Walton represents your father. You imagine your father is angry with you for your homosexual desires. The fact that he puts in a substitute for you indicates you fear castration. The idea that you smoke the cigarette and still play adequately, but yet are still castigated by your father for playing incorrectly, indicates that you believe homosexuality, while a deviant methodology, is perfectly adequate for achieving sexual stimulation. You would also like to have sex with your mother, though this was not in the dream.

Guy With a Dream: I will never sleep again.

Bill Walton: Who’s yr daddy? Don’t get splinters in yr ass from riding the bench so long. Loser.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 8:25 pm  Leave a Comment  

Real Men vs Soccer

world cup: woo hoo! world cup starts this year! worlds greatest sporting event! yay! world cup!

Real Men: dont let their kids play soccer.

Real Men: dont know their kids.

Real Men: are watching the MTV Movie Awards right now and oogling Jessica Alba.

Real Men: don’t ogle. they stare.

Real Men: want steak and eggs for breakfast. cooked by a naked woman.

Real Men: are likely to be disappointed.

Published in: on January 26, 2010 at 3:21 am  Leave a Comment  

Upstate Ether Energy Drinks

Mustapha Mond: I’m thinking that I might need to start buying and drinking some of those fancy new energy drinks when I’m working down at World State headquarters. I find that by mid-afternoon, every day, I start to feel sort of fatigued and out of it, and I hate to drink another cup of coffee, because afternoon coffee that’s been sitting on the break room brewer all day gives you that awful coffee breath. You know, like sausage and cigarettes. Are the energy drinks sweet, tasty, and good for the breath? In case I need to hit on the mail room clerks unexpectedly or something?

Wintermute: Monster is the worst tasting energy drink ever. Sobe tears your empty stomach to shreds. Red Bull is still the king, and it goes really, really well with Good n’ Plenty’s. Although I will say that Monster does seem easiest on the stomach. Sobe just gives you a horrible stomach ache. It’s unbearable. Red Bull is alright going down, but once in a while you puke it back up. I keep thinking I should just make my own energy drink. It can’t be too difficult based on the number of them out there. I’d have plenty of room in my basement tunnels for an energy drink brewery, if I could just utilize the space better.

Mustapha Mond: What would you call your energy drink?

Wintermute: I dunno. “Lunch,” maybe?

Mustapha Mond: No, it would have to have a better name than that if you’re going to sell it to the sleepy sheep out there. Something like “Bathtub Ginger” or “Scumbag Pina Colada.”

Karellen: Those sound more like flavors than a product line. The product itself would have to be called something like, oh, I dunno, “Upstate Ethers” or something. I’d buy that, even though the only energy drink I’ve ever gone for thus far was the Budweiser one. Beer and energy in a single can. It was magical.

Wintermute: Red Bull is like beer. You don’t want anything else in the stomach to fuck it up, and if possible you should try to get it all down in three or four gulps. If you don’t have Ambien, though, you can’t drink it after 6:00 PM. Otherwise, you will have to hope that two Benadryl is enough to get you to sleep, and if it’s not, then you’re fucked entirely. There’s no worse feeling than being up all night after taking a couple of Benadryl and then sitting at a desk the next day. You’re tired and anxious all at the same time. Actually, I’m sure there are worse feelings, like being punked in jail and tasting another man’s johnson and your own ass all at the same time. But I’m not counting that because I’m pretty sure I won’t have to go there again.

Mustapha Mond: Well, “Another Man’s Johnson and Your Own Ass” would an interesting new flavor of Upstate Ethers, that’s for sure.

Wintermute: Today I was on my way to work while all cranked out and shaky on Red Bulls and Benadryl, and I was probably doing 45 miles per hour up Millard Fillmore Avenue when I saw the light at South Asshat turning yellow, then red, so I punched it. But then I saw a cop turning into the intersection, so I slammed on the brakes right under the light and squealed the tires as I came to a stop right in front of him. At the same time, I stalled the car. The cop just looked at me and shrugged his shoulders like I was a fucking imbecile. I assumed I’d get tickets for speeding, running a red light and no seat belt but he didn’t do a fucking thing. He seemed more pissed that I was slowing down his trip to Dickie’s Donuts. God bless the Normanskill Police Department! Now: who’s got one of those “Sausage and Cigarette” flavored Upstate Ethers for me? I got work to do!

Published in: on January 2, 2010 at 12:37 am  Leave a Comment