The "very best" accommodations in an indian-themed motel doesn't amount to much, since the room was only large enough for a double bed and a beat up sofa and the walls were thin enough to let the heat in during daytime and out again at night, but we lived like royalty. And with no apparent competition for the luxury suite we were going on two weeks in that place, which suited the manager just fine since we paid every morning in cash.
Vanessa was back to her neurotic self again and I was able to drink myself half to death with complete impunity from her judgement, so long as I went outside to throw up when I had to. The sound of retching made her skin crawl and I was doing it more often now, like some fraternity pledge away from home for the first time in his life. I had a spot near the back of our teepee that was just out of sight from the lobby that I frequented for exactly that purpose, a spot that featured a mummified cat corpse jutting out of the hard, sun-baked earth from some long forgotten flash flood that no doubt ruined this place at one point. Now it collected my sick in stringy strands of mucous and liquor to a depth that had the cat posthumously drowning one last time.
There was a small town a few miles down the road, but there was hardly any reason to go there except for the liquor store or to pick up an overpriced loaf of week old bread and sardines in mustard. Even the bar was off limits to us. We stumbled in that place a day or so after we arrived only to find a game of bingo being played by a group of geriatric alcoholics that were sinful enough to drink, but innocent enough to consider bingo a good way to spend their time. But I sure did enjoy the dichotomy of reactions Vanessa got from the old men and old women with her tits hanging out of a five hundred dollar cocktail dress. The women stared in shocked anger and the men in wide-eyed wonderment. I wanted to hate fuck her in front of them but was dragged out before I could finish dreaming up the fantasy. Vanessa was embarrassed enough to cry. I didn't understand how she could be so ashamed by the very qualities that made me almost love her.
But when we were locked up in the teepee things were different. I wasn't shouting at her or degrading her, I let her take a bath first, decide when and what to eat, went down on her from time to time... we were playing like we were married. I even got blackout drunk one night and wrote a few dozen poems for her, all terrible, derivative, hackey, love-sick bullshit, but Vanessa wouldn't shut up about them. She read them over and over to herself and hid them from me like an overprotective cat with her kittens, like I might stomp the life out of them to hurt her when my mood changed and I wanted her to suffer again. And that's how we lived together out in the desert, always in the moment, just waiting for the other shoe to drop and get back to resenting each other again.
I was sure things were going better. I thought the happiness was going to sustain her. I thought she might be mending from all the badness that she was living through all those years, and that I would be able to keep her at my side for balance like an old bum with a million-dollar cane that he had no fucking business possessing. Maybe I was the naive one the whole time.
Well, it's finally happened folks. After this, I am out of Scum City Avengers songs. I am ending with the first track of their album, their theme song. I know you'll miss it folks, but somehow, we'll get through this. Please enjoy my final Scum City Avengers song..... Scum City
Hot damn! What a merry fucking christmas we had this year! The holiday spirit was in full effect, with only a few minor setbacks to the traditional american cheer and goodwill. On the good side, I got everything I wanted and those I love were genuinely moved by my thoughtful and generous gifts. But on the bad side... well, it looks like our president is still in a dick measuring competition with congress that will likely lead us to another credit downgrade, and dozens were murdered in unprecedented acts of terror and cruelty.
I know we should just learn to take the good along with the bad, and I am the type of guy that can see the silver lining in almost any mass killing, but even I choke on the stench of feces when it is close enough for the steam to fog up my glasses. And as an american gun owner (I own a handgun. And a rifle. Okay, it's a semi-automatic rifle. Maybe it looks a little menacing... Alright. It's a fucking AK-74. Full disclosure here.) I am pissed off at the assholes that put my choice to own firearms at risk. They act totally irresponsibly, scare the shit out of the general populace, and make all gun owners look like crazy maniacs. And I'm not talking about the kid that shot up an elementary school, or the nutcase that just killed two firefighters in New York. I'm talking about the NRA spokesperson Wayne LaPierre and the ambulance chasing media.
For the week after the massacre that killed dozens of schoolchildren there was little you could do to escape the media coverage. For fucks sake, I watched a reporter interview a FIVE YEAR OLD that witnessed the killings just a few HOURS after the crime. "Do you remember where the gunfire was coming from, Billy? Did you see any bodies?! Did little Suzy have a sucking chest wound?" Real classy. And what is the response from the NRA about all this madness? Surely they tried to redirect the focus of the argument towards the failings of our mental health infrastructure, or the aptitude for our culture to disregard mental illness as mere eccentricity or perceived weakness, leading those that need help to avoid it for fear of being stigmatized.
Nope. They lead off with the suggestion that we start taking volunteers from within our random, shit-kicking, gun enthusiast populace to stand guard in our public schools with their boom stick of choice. Yeah. That might work. The obvious flaw in this logic is that the LAST person that you should give authority to walk the hallways of our elementary schools armed to the teeth is anyone that would enthusiastically volunteer for the job. So why not cops? Oh yeah, I forgot. The NRA is a conservative organization and any suggestion that might lead to an increase in the tax burden would get you tarred and feathered in their world.
So what's the answer? In my humble opinion the NRA should take every public opportunity to condemn gun violence in all forms, and stop pretending that every asshole with a piece is really just a superhero in waiting, ready to leap to action in their community's time of need and slay the monsters that plague them. And the media needs to report these mass killings from a more practical and responsible mindset instead of turning every sadist coward that tries to kill as many people as he can before shooting himself so as to avoid any consequence whatsoever into an instant celebrity. But that will never happen, so I guess I will have to move to some country that is progressive, pleasant, and free of these kinds of mass shootings by loner psychos. Like Norway. Wait... Fuck.
There is a man who has been watching your children. All year long he has been secretly observing and making detailed notes on his list. He knows what your children are doing almost all of the time. He knows when they are sleeping, he knows when they are awake.
This elusive monster surrounds himself with brightly dressed man-children. He lives with these eccentric, stunted half men, in an isolated cabin. They worship him like a deity and spend every waking hour making toys in his arctic sweatshop. The dim witted half-lings work themselves to exhaustion and eventually death. They sacrifice their lives at the perverse whim of this red and white clad beast. They churn out toys invisibly painted with sorrow. Their master is going to find a way to give these blood toys to your children, whether you want him to or not. He is coming.
He won't announce himself when he comes. He won't knock on the door or ask permission. He will gain entrance any way possible. He will climb onto your roof and force his way through your chimney. If you don't have a chimney, he'll smash a window. He is as silent as a cat. He needs to watch you all sleeping. He'll stand over you and taste your breath. He'll run his calloused fingers across your lips. Maybe your fingers were suckled in his mouth, maybe they weren't.
As quickly as he entered, he exits, leaving toys and ample sweat stains. Don't complain. Act like this is totally normal. He is still watching you and your children and he will return next year. Your don't want to know what he does if you are on his naughty list.
It was today, right? I mean, I didn't miss it did I? I meant to stay up all night to witness the dawning of the apocalypse, but I smoked too much weed and passed out on the couch watching Ugly Betty. When I woke up this morning, everything was just like yesterday. Where the fuck is all the Mayan snake gods and blasting volcanoes? Where are the sacrificed mounds of innocent flesh? Where are the fucking orgies?
Calm down.... just need to think. The day is still early! Anything can happen. Any second the earth will shudder and erupt, enveloping all of humanity into a fiery embrace. Any ... second... now.......... ......... Hmmmm. Goddammit! It's just got to end! It's just got to.....
I am so fucking screwed. Yesterday, I told my boss to suck my dick and blasted beer shits onto his desk. I groped the fuck out of that girl from Human Resources and I wrecked my car for the fun of wrecking it. I thought that it wouldn't matter after today. Oh damn... I really shouldn't have had all that unprotected prostitute sex last night.
Once again, the Mayans have fucking failed. I mean I knew that Y2K was bullshit, but this one really seemed like the real deal. It just made sense, you know? Well shit. I've got a few phone calls to make and .... wha?...... What's up with all this blood? Oh, that's right! I killed and ate parts of that hooker! HA! Boy, do I have egg on my face.
By the time Vanessa woke up I was a half hour through a harrowing battle with my hemorrhoids, leaving the toilet bowl looking like the aftermath of a homemade abortion. I was sick of the drink, sick of the travel, sick of the violence, and sick of Vanessa. She knocked twice on the door and I barked back that I needed more time, reading the labels on all the tiny hotel bottles before flushing the toilet three or four times. Vanessa was shamelessly squatting over the ice bucket when I opened the door, unable to wait for me. The indignity was a sobering contrast to her beauty, unbecoming to her like a baby covered in obscene tattoos. Sometimes you wished you didn't know someone so well that they could piss in a bucket in front of you without concern. She was so much easier to lust for when I wasn't intimately familiar with every ingrown hair, pimple, and nasty habit she had. The hypocrisy of these critical thoughts weren't lost on me as I stood in the bathroom doorway with a handful of toilet paper up my ass to stem the blood flow.
"We have to leave today" I told her. "I don't feel safe any more. I'll drive the first leg." I almost never drove, but I figured it would keep her protests to a minimum and allow me to put some distance between us and the bar from last night. I knew that since we were strangers in this town and paid all cash the cops probably wouldn't have much to go on, but these things are hard to predict in the decent parts of america. The locals are used to a fistfight or two, but clubbing a business owner in clear view of dozens of witnesses might get noticed around here.
"Ok, but after a shower I need some laundry done. This place will do it for you! I read in the booklet on the table that they will pick up your clothes and bring them back clean for free!" in one quick motion she had her nightgown off and tossed to the floor, her big ass covered in fresh bruises from the twenty minutes of sloppy fucking I managed before passing out last night. She wore the bruises well and it made me hard, so I jerked off into the nightgown while she showered with the door open then hid the evidence in a laundry bag like an embarrassed teenager. If she saw me she would be insulted and I would have to spend the next half hour explaining that I still enjoyed fucking her.
After her shower I convinced Vanessa to wait until the next stop to do laundry, and loaded the car will all our bags and bottles. I wanted to get far on this drive, far enough that we would find ourselves deep in the desert in a town small enough to not have a jailhouse. Vanessa would be the prettiest girl in town, and I could parade her around like an owner with a first prize poodle on a leash. She finished paying our tab and climbed into the passenger seat.
"Jesus christ. Seven bottles of whiskey in three days. And we even went out one night!" she said, annoyed at the cost of all my shitty habits. "Fuck you. If my drinking isn't to your liking then I might just take all the money and leave you in the street to support yourself the only way you know how. Only here the men won't pay as well as dear old dad!" I regretted it before the words even left my mouth. Vanessa stared down into the seat and started sobbing loudly as I started the car and pulled away.
She cried for a good thirty minutes and made me feel like shit, but I couldn't apologize. I just turned the radio up and we drove for six hours straight without even talking until I saw a tourist trap motel on the outskirts of an indian reservation. There was nothing to see for miles except red dirt and trees that looked like they might have never had leaves on them. The rooms were all shaped like teepees and painted with horizontal red stripes and blue diamonds, with poles sticking out of the stucco tip for an "authentic" touch.
Vanessa looked weary as she dragged herself out of the car and followed me silently into the motel lobby house with the perpetually lit VACANCY sign hanging out front. Before Vanessa could get her purse open and ask for a room I stepped forward and said "My beautiful wife and I would like to stay in your finest teepee, sir." I put my arm around her waist and pulled her to my side, and I could feel her tremble. "Certainly. Please follow me." He stated loudly as he plucked a set of keys from a nail in the wall. "The honeymoon hut! Our finest accommodations!" As we followed him out the door Vanessa leaned into me and I felt her tears through my shirt.
We now sit at the edge of times, on the precipice of the great cosmic undoing which is apparently scheduled for December 21. The news has been a long time coming and was supposedly predicted by the ancient mayan civilization when they decided to discontinue the measurement of time itself on this upcoming date, omitting any reflection of the 13th year of this new millennium from their calendar. Now one must be prepared for this momentous event if one insists on maintaining one's status as esteemed gentleman, and despite any dissent voiced by the scientific community it is important to recognize the demonstrable accuracy of mayan predictions, save the unfortunate oversight regarding a rather unpleasant visit by the spanish. So how must a gentleman approach the impending end of days? Well read on and stash this bit of knowledge under your stovepipe hat.
1.) In order to position one's self best to endure the calamity as the world is torn to pieces, the gentleman must first determine the likely location of the disastrous spark that begins the chaos. Clearly, the logical ground zero is located somewhere in the middle east, where progressive thought is tortured away and historic inspirations were gleefully cast into the sands to likewise erode into dust. Clearly the safest place would be nested within the mountain ranges of the americas, where the fires that burn the seas themselves would be unseen the longest. Make a sanctuary here, with as much brandy and scotch as can be hauled by a team of mules and oxen, save the necessary space for the requisite caviar and expertly aged beef.
2.) A recognition that exposure to the desperate dregs of humanity would be both depressing and unnecessary will serve the gentleman well, and should be considered when formulating plans your alpine estate and defenses. The use of protective canines is the way of men of means, and would leave said men unburdened by the sight and presence of humanity that otherwise provides protection. And considering the limited time one has for preparations, could be implemented with minimal effort or distress.
3.) When the outbreak of violence and insanity begin spreading through the network of peasant society, be prepared to become a likely target for their focus. Luckily the fruits of wealth and education has always served the aristocracy well, and the simple deployment of personal arms paired with the distraction one can gain from the visible abandonment of small sums of currency will suffice for the majority of your escaping needs. Even in the face of such cruel mortality the poor will abandon all thought of retribution against their perceived oppressors in the pursuit of paper that is clearly rendered useless considering the progress of events.
4.) Regarding the entertainment of any man of high birth in such circumstances, little will be required to stimulate the mind and senses. As the waves of death and suffering crash at the gates of your makeshift compound you will be pleasantly lulled to euphoria by the symphony of despair and pain that rain down on your ears from all sides, like a champagne tsunami that brings a most welcome end. And until the chaos comes calling, you have the unique distinction of being in the company of the only true terrestrial equal, your own gentlemanly presence.
Once we were both dressed, Vanessa in one of her favorite new dresses and me in a ratty standby shirt and jeans, we called a cab to drive us over to a local bar. Now that we had the money to take taxis we made sure to do so whenever taking a short trip. A simple traffic stop might land us in jail with just enough time for a murder arrest. We tipped generously, took a short ride to the bar, and made sure to get the driver's personal number for the return trip. If you pay well, they will always be on time.
Vanessa immediately wanted to leave for precisely the reasons that I wanted to stay. The place was filled with professional drinkers and lowlifes, with a restroom door that was hanging on by one hinge, a couple that appeared to be fucking in the back booth, a man with swollen eyes and a broken nose backwashing blood into his beer, and a bartender that swayed like a man that measured his tips in one ounce increments. My kind of place. I sat at the bar and put my jacket down on the stool next to me for Vanessa since she wore a short dress that would make her big ass peek out when she sat, and I didn't want her getting pregnant off of whatever cocktail of filth might be growing on the faux leather beneath her. She always kept the money, but it didn't bother me as she ordered herself a gin and tonic, and me a bottle of irish whiskey and a dry glass.
I poured slightly faster than I drank it, and shared some with the bartender who confided in me that I "had the prettiest girl that had ever walked into this bar, I shit you not!" Once Vanessa started catching up on drinks she began to get a little more comfortable and started absorbing the compliments from the barkeep, as women always do. I got sick of listening to them so I went and stared into the jukebox list, finally deciding on a James Brown song that I don't think I ever heard before. The music was good and loud, enough to drown out the voices in the bar. So I listened and decided on a few more tunes, queued them up and pushed my way through the broken bathroom door to awkwardly piss one-handed while balancing a glass of booze.
When I walked back out Vanessa was waiting outside the door. "I wanna leave. Let's go" she said abruptly. I explained that I wasn't even halfway through the bottle she bought me, and still had two songs left on the box to play, but I could tell there was something wrong.
"The bartender" I said. The pleading look in her eyes told me everything. She had the same look when I shot her father, the one that begged me not to do anything but secretly wished I would. "Alright, alright..." I said "There's a payphone out front, call the cabbie to take us back to the hotel. But I'm NOT leaving without the whiskey." She took a few quick steps to the door, averting her eyes from the bar. I grabbed the bottle off the bar and leaned over to the barkeep and asked "What do I owe you, guy?" He must have not heard me well over the music and said "Hey listen, buddy... she's a fucking liar. If I wanted a piece I wouldn't just grab for it, I would talk to her pimp first" and poked his finger at me. I didn't have time to think. I just swung the bottle through the air and contacted his temple with an audible "ping" like a homerun off an aluminum bat. It wasn't like in the movies, a bottle has a lot more strength than that. It bounced off his head and nearly out of my hand, but didn't break, and he went crashing to the floor behind the bar in a motionless heap.
I thought about jumping the bar and giving him some more, but I quickly became aware that everyone had stopped what they were doing and were now staring at me. So I marched out the front door to Vanessa hanging up the phone. "You didn't say anything, did you?" she asked. "About what?" I was playing stupid. "Let's go for a walk and find another bar. It's a nice night and you look too good to keep to myself." I said. "But the cab is coming!" Vanessa protested. "Fuck the cab. Come on." And down the street we went.
Hamtackle and Terlet discover a nearby Zombie Spawner packed full of crappy treasure. They need only 2 more diamonds to make an energy condenser. A challenge is issued! The first one to find a diamond gets to choose the manner of death for the other. Go Teamwork!!
Want that Texture?: http://www.minecraftforum.net/topic/513093-32x16x142-dokucraft-the-saga-continues/
Music by Kevin MacLeod http://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/
Hey folks, Terlet here. Once a month, I receive a shipment of comic books and comic book related merchandise from the Discount Comic Book Service, http://www.dcbservice.com/. Oh, what a lovely day it is! Do you know why? Because TODAY is fucking comic book day! Oh joy!
In the last couple of years, I have been trying to wait for the trade paperbacks (collected editions) rather than purchase the monthly 22 page floppy comics. I've got box upon box of floppys clogging up the basement. Oh, but the trades, the trades go on the bookshelf. So much nicer to display and access than cardboard long boxes. I have become acclimated to waiting for 6 months to a year after the floppy is released to purchase the trade and finally read the story.
During my 25 years of comic book "collecting" I have not taken very good care of my books. Don't get me wrong, for the first 10 years, I bagged and boarded everything. Then I discovered that all of my 70's 80's and 90's comics weren't worth shit! They print so many of the fucking things that there is rarely anything of any lasting value. Once I read them, they go into a box and get shoved into the crawl space.
I know, I know, these days there is an occasional Image #1 that goes for a shit ton on Ebay. There are some low print run comics that are unexpected successes. There are still valuable, collectible comics being produced. That being said, I buy what I want to read rather than what I think will be "collectible". Sometimes to my disadvantage, I read a first print of Chew #1 in the fucking bath tub. I thought it was going to be worth toilet paper like all of the DC and Marvel comics I buy. Whoops!
Well, let's see what we got.
First up, the floppies. Yes, I still buy the occasional floppy. How would I know if I wanted to wait for the trade or not.
We got Marvel Comics - A+X. One of the pseudo-reboot/jumping-on-point thingys for Marvel NOW. I used to be a huge DC nerd. I knew that universe inside and out. Then DC eradicated all of continuity last year with The New 52! I was excited for it, but it's not for me. All of my copious DC knowledge is now moot. Tim Drake was never Robin? Fuck me. I'm glad Marvel is not erasing their in-comic history. Makin' me a Marvel Zombie and shit.
Then we got a He-Man spinoff comic. The Origin of Skeletor. Why the fuck not?
I got the DCBS exclusive cover of Judge Dredd #1. Judge Dredd is pretty damn entertaining. This is the first time I have seen Judge Dredd published by IDW. It could be interesting or it could be an embarrassment.
Next up we have the DC and Marvel half of the trade paperbacks.
One of the only DC titles I have been looking forward to recently. All Star Western. This trade contains the first 6 issues of the monthly floppys. It's motherfucking Jonah Hex in an old west Gotham City. What more could you want?
Next is Deadpool Kills The Marvel Universe. It is an out of continuity story that is not safe for kids. In it, Deadpool murders the entire Marvel Universe. Yup, that's right. Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Wolverine, all fucking DEAD! I am looking forward to it.
I read the first issue of Saucer Country several months ago. While I was not impressed by the first issue, I will buy almost anything by Paul Cornell. He's just good. This is about a lady running for president and being abducted by aliens, I know, absurd right!? A woman president.
Next is all the other publishers that are not Marvel or DC. DC and Marvel make up about 70% of the comic book marketplace. The remaining 30% is split between Image, IDW, Dark Horse, dozens of smaller companies and Garth Ennis torture porn comics. (I love Crossed)
The Strain by Dark Horse comics. It looks like the script is by Guillermo Del Toro but the comic is by Davip Lapham. It's a new take on survival horror that is supposed to be a trilogy of books. It's kinda a vampire/Zombie/disease monster comics. Infection spreads, yadda yadda, infectious tongue stingers, etc, worldwide epidemic blah blah blah. Looks awesome.
Then it's Godzilla. IDW recently acquired a partnership with Toho co.. So now they are publishing Godzilla comics like a motherfucker. Some are good, some aren't. I don't know which camp this one falls in. Either way it should hold me over until that gorgeous Godzilla Half Century War is released. That shit is drawn by James Stokoe. That shit is going to be amazing. This one looks.... OK.
Ragemoor by Dark Horse comics looks awesome. The interior is in black and white but it only adds to atmosphere of the book. I read the first issue and really enjoyed it. Creepy ancient living castle and the goings on inside. Good fun!
And finally, The Walking Dead volume 17. You fucking know what this is. Yeah, it's still going on. Truthfully, *********Spoilers********** I'm fucking bored.
Well that's enough of that! I gotta get to reading. See you next month!
It's time again for me to help our readers to vicariously experience the pale, white underbelly of shock horror cinema through my desensitized eyes. Tonight I bring you the third film in the Guinea Pig series, "He Never Dies". I am starting to develop a soft spot for shitty, gory japanese flicks, and judging by the title this one promises not to disappoint.
The opening breaks from the series' norm of establishing some kind of documentary-style realism in the story, although it is presented as fact by some english speaking presenter because, you know, white people never lie. Just ask the indians. But any illusion of reality is shattered by the format which tries to make you forget that a guy filming himself in his apartment wouldn't have fades, panning shots, or angle changes.
We greet our nameless protagonist in the act of slashing his wrists with a box cutter. But what drives a man to this kind of desperation? Glad you asked. He works in some stereotypical cubicle farm circa the early 1990's, complete with overbearing and demanding boss. His coworkers shit all over him and don't socialize, setting the scene for either a suicide case or a workplace spree-killer. But first he takes the natural approach of skipping work and becoming a shut-in. Been there. Then after deciding that his colleagues have forgotten about him, he decides to kill himself. The flick then showcases its amazing special effects by showing the blade cutting deep into his wrist, lifelike blood and sinew visible through the wound, but after some tense moments... nothing happens. The bleeding stops, and our anti-hero proclaims that he must be immune to pain, jamming his fingers into the slit and digging deeper.
Now, after discovering that you are impervious to pain and death, what would you do? Become a high-priced political assassin? A movie stuntman? A cage fighter, perhaps? Not this guy. He decides to push the limits on his body's invulnerability by severing his hand at the wrist and slicing his throat. Luckily he is able to retain some basic use of his hand after duct taping it back on, and decides to reach out to one of his work contacts to get more implements to test his physical limits with, namely some gardening shears and a hatchet, which he has delivered to him in the middle of the night.
When his former work buddy shows up he wastes no time in giving a bloody exhibition show, gutting himself hara kiri style and throwing his intestines at the screaming man until his body cavity contained only a rib cage and spinal column. Strangely, the movie ends when a woman enters the apartment to find the protagonist reduced to only a wise-cracking severed head on a table, and immediately begins cleaning the gore from the room for an unexplained reason.
Ultimately this movie was a big disappointment. I have come to expect brutal and relentless violence from this series, but this sequel was far more lighthearted and tame by comparison. Gone are the dark themes of murder and torture, replaced with self-mutilation by a character that is unable to even feel the pain. And can someone please explain to the producers that I cannot maintain an erection when you keep putting wacky hijinks in the middle of the gory scenes? Damn. I had high hopes for this one.
Hamtackle and Terlet are at their bullshitiest on today's Steaming Pile! Murder machines! Egg Farms! Spider Ambushes! Lots of talk and no action! Tuck back your sack and hang on tight! Exclamation point!
Want that Texture?: http://www.minecraftforum.net/topic/513093-32x16x142-dokucraft-the-saga-continues/
Music by Kevin MacLeod http://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/
Vanessa was stronger than me. Her mood was perpetually filled with childish glee, she had bleached her hair (which was ridiculous because she still had jet black eyebrows), and she was even learning how to drive my car so we could keep on the move when I was blind drunk. Which I was frequently now, up to two liters per day. It had been a week since I shot her dad and we were pretending it didn't happen, living out the lives of traveling gypsies until we could figure out what to do.
We thought about mexico, but neither of us spoke any spanish. She wanted to move to the south, but I fucking hate the humid weather. So we drifted from town to town, staying only a few nights at each stop until we either got bored or outstayed our welcome. I was feeling trapped with her again and it reminded me why I was so happy to be rid of her the first time. It was like I took in a stray dog and was stuck with it now, too guilty to put it back where I found it. Besides, it wasn't her fault. I guess I just can't be happy unless I'm miserable.
Shit. She was taking a shower, which means she is planning on dragging me into public tonight. We were staying in a $200 a night hotel now, complete with air conditioning and room service. They would bring us chilled bottles of wine with a simple ring of the telephone so I was lit up at all times and pretty content to stay in, but I was didn't argue with her anymore. Instead of stealing her music from her like before, or pursuing other women to make her angry, I just degraded her in bed. When she wanted to be on top, I would force her face in the pillows. If she started to enjoy it I would fuck her in the ass. And if she started to play along with that I just gave up altogether. And even after all that she would still wrap her skinny arms around me and bury her head in my chest until she was fast asleep. It was only then that I would take her hands and hold them close under the covers. She was always so fucking cold but my blood ran hot enough for both of us, and I would smell her hair and catch myself almost falling in love with her. And then in the morning I would treat her like a stranger again. Sometimes I wondered if she was ever just pretending to sleep, so starved for affection that she would feign unconsciousness just to trick me into being nice to her for a few precious minutes. She had better not be. Because I would never forgive her for it.
All this mess was going though my head as I walked into the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower with her. She looked over her shoulder at me with a smile on her face and I grabbed a hold of her from behind and just let the hot water wash over us in silence. I guess I owed her that much.
Any dedicated reader of the Popular Irony blog already knows that I made a once in a lifetime trip to Italy this year, and I figured that dead horse was in need of another posthumous bludgeoning, so here we have some of the artwork I acquired from various street artists. The twist is... none of these pieces were bought by any traditional means. In fact, not a single dollar changed hands for any of them! Now I share my secrets for how to grow your art collection on a pauper's budget.
Much of my time on this year's trip was spent in tuscany, which is known for it's rich farmland and endless fields of sunflowers. While wandering the streets of San Gimignano with some locally bottled wine and two loaves of heavy, fresh bread for that night's dinner, I came across an obviously talented woman showcasing her watercolors. I traded twelve fruitless minutes under her heavy skirt, but after managing only to disappoint her I gave half of one loaf of bread, leaving with this painting and a froth mustache that has yet to fully wash away. I will remember her fondly always.
While in tuscany I had the good fortune to spend a week in a private villa converted from a 14th century Medici stable house, with breathtaking views in every direction. While drunkenly trying to decipher the rules of a game of bocce I noticed another young male artist on the property painting our luxurious accomodations. I approached him with a large smile so as not to startle the boy, but once within twenty yards I fell upon him with fury. After beating him within an inch of his urchin-like existence I noticed the quality of his work. Lucky for him I accepted a trade of this piece for a thirty-second head start getaway, and in my drunken state I was unable to catch him on foot.
While staying in Venice I met up with an exceptional watercolor artist in San Marco square who had a unique style of combining airbrush with traditional paints. He had unreasonable demands that were the subject of much debating between us, but in the end I gave him a sturdy handjob in the shadow of the basilica in exchange for this work. But the joke was on him. I would have given the handy for free!
This small oil painting was being sold along the tourist-trap banks of the grand canal, where the crowds of germans and americans wash over every inch of walking space and clog the bottlenecks of bridges for as far as the eye can see. This painting caught my eye because it was being guarded by a severely disabled elderly woman who must have been working with the artist, perhaps related to him or her. I took the opportunity to snatch this painting and slip into anonymity amongst the crowd as she cackled her protests upon deaf ears.
And finally I share my favorite piece. I acquired this in Rome, although the subject matter is clearly the canals of Venice. I was awestruck by the detail and quality in this large painting, and complimented the old man on his obvious skill. We discussed pricing for the piece, but I must admit I runed my leverage by showing such transparent fondness for it, and his asking price was far too high, so I reluctantly walked away. Luckily there was a police officer around the corner chain smoking with a submachine gun and leaning against his alfa romeo squadcar. I frantically explained in broken italian that I saw an elderly man sodomizing a toddler with his knobby, arthritic digits, and gave a detailed description. While the officer was administering a savage beating I was able to sneak away with this painting. It is the most prized piece in my collection.
Welcome again to Films For Fiends, where I, Hamtackle, watch the most disturbing, controversial, and violent films ever produced so you don't have to! It's been a long time since I have weighed in with another installment, so I hope you haven't had to look elsewhere for you gorno fix. Enjoy!
The Guinea Pig series is a notorious collection of japanese horror films that are famous for their themes of sexual sadism and torture. I already reviewed the first film in the series, "The Devil's Experiment", and now bring you a run down on part 2, subtitled "Flower of Flesh and Blood". It claims the background of a video sent to prominent manga horror cartoonist Hideshi Hino by a misguided fan, who viewed it and then turned it over to the police before reproducing it in this gem of shock horror cinema.
As with any japanese horror, the film begins with an ominous sequence of a young woman being pursued and abducted by a masked man. Come to think of it, this is also how most japanese pornography begins. Maybe I downloaded the wrong file. The only way to know for sure is after her abductor applies electric shock, he will either stab her with a knife or a dildo.
Ok, this is clearly the horror version. The drugged girl awakens tied to a table, and a man dressed as a samurai stands over her and decapitates a chicken telling her "This is your fate!" as if that wasn't obvious by the act itself. Of course, in his defense, she might have just thought he was cooking her dinner. Japanese courtship rituals often mirror those of serial killers. Luckily for her the man keeps drugging her with some unknown injectable cocktail, and let's face it: if you are going to be rape/killed by a wacky mustachioed samurai, you're going to want to be as far from sober as possible.
And after a half-assed explanation of the artistic merits of his fetishistic torture, he gets right down to the nitty gritty by cutting off both of the girl's hands. I must admit, the effects are quite realistic, complete with grasping fingers after detachment. He then cuts off her arms at the shoulder with equally impressive effects. You see the cutting close-up, with minimal cutaways. He even employs the use of a carpenter's chisel to get through the shoulder joint.
It seems pretty clear now that this guy's plan is to disassemble this girl like a thanksgiving turkey, as he gets to detaching the legs at the knee with a crude, rusty hand saw. This flick would almost be believable if it weren't for the dramatic and shitty acting by the killer and the total lack of nudity. Pretty much any serial killer is going to be masturbating into the viscera of their victim eventually. It's kinda the point of the whole thing, I think. This guy doesn't even sport so much as a half-chub as he opens her stomach and removes the intestines. But then again, he is japanese, so who knows? The special effect guy gets bonus points for using animal guts al-la dawn of the dead. They make for a much more authentic experience.
The girl is then shown some mercy as the killer literally drops the axe on her, separating her head from the body (or is it the body from the head? I'm not sure.) We are then treated to a close up eye removal via spoon, and their seductive kissing and licking by our psycho, and then the film cuts to him sitting on the bloodstained table smoking a cigarette. Maybe he jerked off into the corpse off-camera. Good thing. We showed up to watch hardcore violence, not disgusting and taboo sexuality. The film ends with the killer showing off his collection of severed limbs and preserved eyes, along with some additional half-assed poetry.
If you are familiar with the original Guinea Pig film, then you know what to expect from this. But there is one noticeable difference, and that is the unconsciousness of the female lead in this one. Personally I like it better this way, as the frantic screaming of a young japanese girl is always welcome, but only in short measures. The first film was like watching tentacle porn with sandpaper suction cups, and not in a good way. These films are one of the first series to attempt virtual snuff films, and gave birth to the "torture porn" genre. And given it's brief vignette style of filming and complete lack of any plotline or redeeming social value makes this film the perfect way for a seriously sick individual to get a short fix of violence to beat back the urges to dismember your coworkers. If that sort of thing is not your bag, then you probably stopped reading this after the first few paragraphs.
Terlet tries his hand at unarmored spelunking and discovers diamonds, danger and the innate ability to fuck everything up. Hamtackle waits on the surface, like a damn coward, spewing insulting advice. Continued classiness.
Want that Texture?: http://www.minecraftforum.net/topic/513093-32x16x142-dokucraft-the-saga-continues/
Music by Kevin MacLeod http://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/
It is that time of year again when we as Americans assert our dominance over all of turkeykind. Most of us will sit around in the living room watching football while the dirty work is done, but there is something magical going on in the kitchen that we should all know about. Some of our thanksgiving chefs will be buying a pre-packaged turkey that requires only a quick removal of neck and giblets from the carcass, a quick washing, then the application of various breads and vegetables into the gaping maw of the bird by hand. But a few of us will be truly getting our hands dirty and slaughtering our own turkeys, reinforcing the bond between our primitive hunter/gatherer mind and the animals that are sacrificed for our well being. And as a local authority on turkey preparation I feel it is my responsibility to lead you through the less-than-pleasant parts of the process.
Now we all know how to actually cook the bird, but few know about the ancient art of ending it's life properly. The killing of the animal is quite simple, as turkeys are notoriously stupid and must be under constant supervision to avoid wandering through death's door on their own, but if you need a someone to hold your hand through this part let me offer you two words: large rocks. After plucking the bird it will be very difficult to tenderize it without damaging the delicate skin, so it is best to kill the bird with a bucket full of palm-sized rocks, which will soften the connective tissue of the meat and end it's life in one simple step. So pummel that animal and let's move on to feather-removal!
Plucking may seem like a difficult task, but this is where our modern world comes in handy. Just wrap the dead animal in 1-2 rolls of duct tape, grab the loose end of the roll, and swing the bird around your head until the centrifugal force unravels the delicious mummy. There! You've got a fresh and clean turkey corpse!
Before getting to the squishy offal within the animal you must defeat it's basic defenses which have evolved over time to have a psychological effect on the primary predator of the turkey, mankind. Your common grocery store turkey has been processed already, so don't be shocked when you learn the truth about the anatomy. The cavity that holds the guts in place is protected by a full set of human-like teeth and eyes, which must be removed manually before stripping the gums and proceeding with evisceration. Use a paring knife to peel back the gum line and make yanking the teeth a bit easier, and grip them with household pliers before removing with a twist and abrupt downward force. Make sure you have a solid hold of the tooth, because failure to remove the full root could make future consumption rather unpleasant for some of your guests.
Now you probably have noticed at this point that your turkey comes equipped with a pair of shockingly human-like eyes. Don't worry, as they are entirely non-functional and are only there to startle you. Do not hesitate in plucking them out with a tablespoon in much the same manner a some would employ a melon baller. The sooner they are not staring up at you the sooner you will be able to get past this unpleasantness. Now that this is done you are ready to complete the final step before cooking.
Few amateur chefs are aware of the strange anatomy of the turkey, but it is widely known among farmers and butchers that a turkey has roughly a quarter mile of intestines within it's bloated frame. It uses them to digest the bones of it's primary food source in the wild, mice and rats. So get a mid-size garbage bag ready and thrust a hand through the maw of the beast. Once the bowels are fully unplugged, grasp the bladder at the base and twist to avoid spillage. Once removed, simply yank out the lungs and spleen to complete the process and get to cooking.
From here, it is entirely up to you how you prepare your bird, from deep frying to slow roasting, the possibilities are endless. And since you took the animal's life yourself, you get the satisfaction of having bested one of mankind's most formidable foes. The domesticated turkey.
Enjoy your carcass flesh, and remember to be thankful that your genitals still function. Unless they don't, in which case you may want to kill yourself.
It has been said that death is the bringer of peace, but that is complete bullshit in my experience. I have seen three dead men and one dead woman in my days and they all looked like pain and distress. I looked down onto the distorted, jawless face of my victim that night and witnessed his surprise and post-mortem agony in overflowing quantities. And when I dreamed that night I made penance. I tried in vain to patch the hole in his face with endless handfuls of mud and sand only to watch it pour through the funnel of gore onto the steps below us. I didn't mean to save his life, but rather to save my own from the cancer of lifelong guilt, but it was proven futile when I awoke and saw Vanessa's pale nudeness reflected in the moonlight from outside the Burgess' cracked windows and realized what had been done.
It was strange because while I slept in short fits she was down deep, sleeping like I had never seen her manage before. The entire drive to my apartment had been a stressful and silent mess, but surprisingly Vanessa seemed totally calm. I had slain her personal boogeyman, and now bore the burden she carried for so many years before our paths crossed. My mind was running weary with thoughts of consequence which was contrary to my nature and the drink wasn't numbing the sound anymore. We must leave this ghetto sanctuary. I have to abandon my gun. We need to drain her father's bank accounts in the morning. I have to burn my bloody clothes. Anything to dodge my justice.
I got out of bed and poured a glass of whiskey. Vanessa had the good sense to grab some of her belongings as well as her father's cash and billfold complete with four signed blank checks, which was enough to get us far from here. I had two more days left on this week's rent at the Burgess but we had no intention of staying any longer, so as soon as Vanessa woke we would hit the road and get to her father's bank before the cops had time to monitor the accounts. I went for a piss and when I came back Vanessa was up and looking out the curtain-less window. I reminded her that a topless white woman in the ghetto was bullet bait, so we got dressed and left.
We arrived at the bank just as it was opening, and I waited in the car. Vanessa said they knew here here, and sure enough she walked back a half hour later with 40k in cash and a shit-eating grin to match. I had never seen money like that before. So much for any plausible legal argument for manslaughter or self-defense. Before leaving the state we decided to do some quick shopping, and Vanessa was so thrilled she decided to blow me while I drove. I almost killed us both and had to put a stop to it since she nearly bit my cock off when I had to suddenly hit the brakes.
She spent the next four hours buying mostly clothes, and I found a nice gutter to drop my revolver into. I had that gun since I was twenty and nearly cried when I heard it splash in the sewage below. Now my car was full of shopping bags and damning evidence and we still had no idea where to go from here, so we stopped at a fast food joint and ate our fill of discount tacos. There we sat in the car, a bag filled to the brim with $100 bills and we still ate like white trash. Fucking wild.
Eww! No No No NO!! Don't let it touch me. I don't care if you think it is cute. Hose it off and I'll consider giving you false praise for your filthy loin leavings.
What!? You too!? No, I would not like to meet your child. What is it covered in? It doesn't matter what it is because I won't be getting close enough to smell it. Do all kids eat only spaghetti?
I'm gonna be sick. Why does it have to laugh with every mouthful. It is getting everywhere. Why do you condone this action? You laugh and encourage the filth? Could you open that door for me I need to leave. No, I won't touch the door knob myself. This place reeks of infant plague.
OK. Thanks. It threw up, so I threw up. I hope you are happy. Good luck getting that red wine out of that rug. That rug was fucked anyway. Your kid is a walking dung mop.
Thanks for having me over. Don't bother inviting me next time. Your family is a mess and I hate you for it.
I don't place much value in philosophy. It has never solved any problems, only created them. It has never served to concentrate understanding, only to dilute it. And in philosophical arguments no side is ever deemed to be wrong, just varying degrees of correct. But I still enjoy a good debate as long as both sides belly up to the bar with the agreed upon understanding that no progress will be made on either front.
This subject piqued my interest when I watched the HBO adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's play "Sunshine Limited". It features a professor (played by Tommy Lee Jones) discussing whether life is worth living with a makeshift preacher and savior (played by Samuel L Jackson) in the preacher's home shortly after interrupting his new friend's suicide attempt. At one point the preacher accuses the professor of seeing only the shadows, and not realizing he is the one casting them. Whoa. Deep shit.
It got me thinking. The preacher claims he can see the darkness that his friend is dwelling in. He does not deny the professor his world view, just the cynical blinders he sees it with. The preacher is not a saintly figure. He is, in fact, a convicted murderer and former drunkard, and believes he has lived farther in the darkness than the professor ever will. But he thinks there is more to the world than just the shadows, and the professor just needs to turn around to see the light that is shining behind him. The almighty is offering a gift of everlasting life, and all that needs to be done is to accept it and believe that his soul is worth embracing, not because he is deserving of that embrace, but because the cost of the gift has already been paid by his savior. But the light at the professor's back is giving him no warmth, so it apparently goes unnoticed, and the professor must be so content in his world view that he will keep walking forward, staring into his own shadow until he meets his dismal end.
The story does a great job of convincing the viewer that the preacher is making headway in the argument. He walked through the shadows himself just to find that it is possible to simply turn around and bask in the warm light. And he tries desperately, but not forcefully, to appeal to the professor's will to live. But the debate is not so simple.
The professor listens carefully, and plays the role of the student for a long while. But when he speaks he makes his own perspective seem equally real. He is an educated man, and he carries the burden of high intellect. He wishes for the darkness. He is not walking with his view buried deep in his own shadow, but rather he is marching into the light with his eyes open to the brightness of knowledge, and the sadness, contempt, and hate that makes up the matrix of our reality. He explains that he is beyond saving by the very terms of the preacher's misguided faith, and even if he could believe, he has, as did Adam and Eve, committed the original sin of eating from the tree of knowledge. The flaw in the argument for the professor is in it's very premise. Far from secretly desiring the gift of eternal life that is being offered by the unapparent creator, he desires only nothingness. And in his death he hopes with every fiber of his being that nothingness will be his destination, because anything more would be too big of a disappointment for him to bear.
Ultimately neither man is able to persuade the other, as is the hallmark of any philosophical discussion, and the viewer is left to determine whether the depressing ending is more of a failure for the preacher or a validation for the professor. I certainly have my own personal leanings, which I would share with you if it would do either of us any good. But it wouldn't.