•August 17, 2011 • Leave a Comment
You’re tan, full head of dark wispy hair, have those little ab divot gimmick on your hips and can tilt your head coyly to the side. Let me guess: you’re a teen Hollywood Werewolf? It doesn’t matter if you’re Greek or Malaysian- if you look like a fucking Werewolf in human form, you’re not going to starve in Hollywood. I’ve often wondered why there’s such a ground swell obsession with attractive monster movie or TV stars recently. Like any young boy growing up I used to runaround with my friends creating monster battle match ups: Who would win in a fight? Wolfman or Frankenstein? What if Frankenstein had a machine gun for a hand and the Wolfman was invisible- would that be a fair fight, etc. Little did I know these early imagination workouts would eventually prepare my mind for creating depravity and awkward sexual humor situations but back then it was just an innocent exploration of a topic I loved. These creatures were more to me than just a cause for restless nights and cheap pop out scares- they were my anti-establishment. I liked them because they were passionately doing the opposite of what my mother and father told me were acceptable. Fangs tearing through flesh, claws scraping against windows; waiting to breakthrough and terrorize- those were the moments that excited me. I knew I would never sit naked in a sorority shower with duct tape and a knife, lurking in the shadows to grab the first girl I saw. I knew I would never raise a demon through a blood ritual and send it careening on a violent quest for murder through the town square. Instead, I received the rush and freedom from those terrible moments in the form of movies and comics. At a young age, I appreciated horror for what it was; a safe way to live out those fantasies of “what if” dark moments.
It wasn’t until later that I started to understand the sociological importance of these monsters I admired. Werewolves especially appealed to me- not only did they look cool, but their violence and chaos were intriguing. Grotesquely formed muscle and teeth grew out of man in an agonizingly painful ritual- the transformation was almost a penance, a way to remind the human that his quest for death was wrong. Yet…he could not control the change- he was tortured to both hurt others and hurt himself. This gave Werewolves a unique position for me; unlike the other vampires and the mindless midnight creatures, rarely did the Werewolf revel in his situation. The power and ferocity of his killing was matched with sorrowful, lonely moments of reflection. In the ancient Europe, the creation of Werewolves likely corresponds with early serial killers- townsfolk finding mutilated corpses and rationalizing only large wolves could be the culprits. They could not fathom that level of violence was done by ordinary men, so they created fantastic tales of witchcraft and satanism as reasons for such terror.
Fast forward to 2011 and what do we have with the mythos of the Werewolf? He’s a sex symbol- unbridled rage has been translated into exotic (yet attainable) sex appeal. Mind you, this is the kind of sex we can find in a Katy Perry video not the kind found in the back stall of a Foot fetish club bathroom. His teeth are ripped out and replaced with a gel infused hairstyle, his course fur and painful form shifting is transitioned by a gratuitous shirtless pose and a gentle, sweaty brow. All of this is to remind the viewers that the main curse of the Werewolf is not a lust to destroy lives but a lust to have sex with vulnerable women. The feral monster is now the angst ridden young adult- all of his explorations at night, the freedom of dirt beneath his paws and flesh in his teeth are gone. He is PG now, whiny and perturbed that the full moon cycle corresponds with date night this weekend and he can’t go see the new Vince Vaughn movie. Life’s not fair- it would have been the third date and he was hoping for public crotch fondling.
•August 9, 2011 • 1 Comment
I read an online comment where a grown ass man called someone a “libtard.” Are you fucking kidding me? This same thread also had someone say “Rethuglican” and “Wackistan.” I’m gonna take a big toddler waddle here and say this is probably why our country’s political arguments turn into a shot for shot remake of the 4am sex shop arrest episode of Cops. Debate- it’s a very simple yet broad concept. It’s beautiful because we can take debate to any extreme and it can be done with humor or stoicism. Contrary to what you might think, I love debate. I surround myself with weird fucking people of every political and social leaning; and I’m always looking to add more friends. Seriously: if you’re a female who was born in Colorado and enjoys being trapped in human showers, call me. This internet gimmick we call free speech is supposedly untouchable. Somewhere along the line, however, we forgot that while we have the legal right to say pretty much anything we want, freedom of interpretation allows complete strangers to think we’re basement dwelling fiends. Any type of discourse, especially revolving around politics has the potential to be submarine d before any point can be taken. I don’t care what “spectrum” you believe in; the fact that you need to define said spectrum before you define your position is sad to me. And this is coming from the guy who just last year learned that pickles and cucumbers were the same goddamn thing.
We’ve become lazy and we’re letting the media, politicians and employers of America frame our opinions into 15 second collectible sound bites. I hate the terms “liberal”, “conservative”, “moderate republican”, etc. These mean absolutely nothing to me except that I should immediately qualify a “liberal” as pro-life, anti-Iraq war, pro-big government. Of the thousands of fucking issues in America right now, can ONE term find a cape big enough to be wrapped around its’ all-encompassing shoulders?! Yet that’s how we approach issues; pouring a gallon of milk into a 8oz coffee mug and then complain about the spill. All of us are guilty here; sitting around arguing with our parents or friends that WE’RE the smart ones yet when election time comes around we vote for one of two dudes with a tie. So then what happens? You end up on CNN.com calling someone a “libtard,” taking sentences out of context and happily plugging people you’ve never met into a ghost matrix of paranoia and anger. These faceless, mindless zealots we create who oppose our views are rarely devoted to our destruction. As a matter of fact, I bet if you were accidentally locked in an elevator with them by hour seven you would be contemplating a make out session. Even if they were a dude and you were worried your beards would crinkling together after an Eskimo kiss.
Jesus, can’t we just have intelligent conversations about the issues at play? Yes, what I’m advocating takes time and commitment to listen but goddammit the problems we face have no hesitation breaking through our simplistic constructs. Two parties can’t solve the economy much like two people can’t accurately perform a Colombian necktie. This whole thing is about as annoying as attractive Werewolves.
•August 1, 2011 • Leave a Comment
Guess what? Hot chicks who obsess about Star Wars are not “nerdy”. Sorry to throw a hard right to the face of my masculinity, but that shit is just annoying. Mainstream cultural references frame everything these days- and they’re predicated on the idea that men want to fuck everything. The logic is shockingly literal- “If I like female vagina and science fiction movies ergo a vagina attached to a science fiction movie will be the complete experience.” Hmm, let me think about that while I beat my cock furiously against the keyboard. Kjghfksksahwwiwiwwghwsbbsjssja bsvsvsvssb smss. I call bullshit, people. I’m going to let the lady folk in on a little secret- guys don’t think with their dicks. I know I’m supposed to channel my inner Van Wilder, American Pie and Sleepless in Seattle here; I’m supposed to grab my wooden club and grumble about how annoying it is when a women won’t give me a handjob after I hold the door open for her. It’s just not the case. Unfortunately, some of my male brethren think it’s good politics to adhere to such stereotypes and I really don’t understand them, but hey, if an unsolicited boob grab of a Denny’s waitress makes you hate yourself a little less than carry on.
So how does this all relate to your sexy nerd fetish of hot chicks dressed like Jedi? It’s a scam, brother. You’re supporting an industry; a group of corporate partners who sell you shit based on the fact that they need horny, lonely dudes to buy their products. T-shirts, mousepads, toys; it’s a way to form categories to place us in and then bombard said social categories from a marketing aspect. Lets be honest…you don’t reeeeeally like Star Wars that much, right? It’s essentially a glorified fairy tale- Aladdin with laser swords. I equate obsessed Star Wars fans to people who claim RL Stein’s Goosebumps books are our generation’s War and Peace. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Goosebumps and I like Star Wars, but to claim that these movies reinvent the goddamn wheel of science fiction need to calm the fuck down.
Liking Star Wars is culturally “safe”- and maybe I should throw some credit to George Lucas for creating a concept so universally acceptable to the masses. It allows for certain insecure types to test the waters of fanboy-dom; they can dip their toes into the murky warm waters of sci-fi perspective. Unlike the Babylon 5 and Firefly crowds who are seen as creepy basement Uncles, Star Wars has transcended. It’s now a business, a super successful business who should wear a seersucker suit instead of bounty hunter armor to Comic Con. If you’re a moderately attractive girl who augments her attractiveness by uttering Boba Fett and Han Solo quotes at the coffee shop- good for you. Live your life I guess- just don’t sue me when I hang around your house leaving ewok themed Valentine’s Day cards written in my blood. After all, every nerd loves their ewoks!
•July 29, 2011 • Leave a Comment
I’m fucking tired of college kids complaining about working at surfboard shops instead of being a veterinarian or scientist. Sure “dood” dreams are neat and all but if you haven’t noticed the economy is stumbling around outside like a Special Olympian on roller blades. I’ve grown up goddammit; I still read comics and believe that a Bigfoot creature could exist in the right type of forest with a certain prey selection but don’t let that twist your conceptions of me. I got my pinstripe suit on and my briefcase is bursting; gorged on important documents and pencils. So…America…it’s time you did business with Leather Jacobs.
So you want to save the world, eh? Well guess what, it won’t happen- mostly because the world is completely fine watching online porn for free while you try and sell them DVDs from the trunk of a car. This fucking economy plays out exactly like the plot of the movie Predator. Covered in mud, clutching homemade arrows and sharpened sticks, the jobless and college students are a determined Arnold Schwarzenegger. They face off against an alien creature sporting advanced weaponry and fetish for hunting them alive; ladies and gentlemen, I give you the economy. Who will win? Who will fall and be a bone trophy on the figurative mantle of the apocalypse? I don’t know- I masturbate into socks so clearly I’m not the financial expert here. All I know is that unlike the dreamy college kids, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I need money to survive. I’ll lick my wounds, sell some shit no one really needs and wait for my day. And when the time comes I’ll put on a ski mask, hide in the bushes and throw plastic bags full of feces at every passer by until my giggles and squeals cause me to hyperventilate.
•October 7, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Man, who would’ve thought there’d be so many fucking angry people out there these days? Jesus, have you watched/read the news lately? Gay Adoption?! Evolution?! Vaccines and Autism?! I can’t address all these right now because I’m shivering under my desk, clenching a shake weight and fumbling blindly for the hollow point bullets I stashed in my socks. This is a dead world people; sorry to be the cock of the room, but it’s true. Americans are getting dumber and dumber by the minute because we keep having goddamn kids. Those beautiful bundles of flesh who make us hemorrhage cash daily until you kick them out of your basement when they’re the ripe old age of 45. Look, I love kids, and I get how special they are, but at some point we need to focus on a math problem here: Limited Resources + Exponentially Increasing Population – Rational Dialogue to Fix Problems= FUCKED. The party can only last so long; just like in high school, you’re not gonna score if the girl you’ve targeted is passed out on the futon caked with vomit and football player DNA. So how do we cope with major, life changing problems? We focus on the shittiest, most insignificant social tension and increase the scope to disgustingly large proportions.
In the scheme of the world, does it really matter if your gay neighbors adopt children? Really? As long as they’re not packing 15 dildos into the kid’s school lunch, how does spending any amount of emotional energy getting upset about the idea benefit you personally? We have severe economic and environmental issues of increasing severity approaching us and you find it more serving to worry about shit that you have absolutely no control over? Fuck you. Yes, really…fuck you. Grow up, this goddamn planet is full of varying levels of intellect and I don’t have time to play Midwest babysitter so the slow kids can understand that just because two men fuck each other in the ass doesn’t mean they’re subhuman or less deserving of the “privilege” of raising children. I just want honest people with the ability to look at information and be relative. Yes, it’s a sad story when a pretty suburban girl goes missing, but it doesn’t indicate a trend or ignore the fact that hundreds of urban people continually go missing. Abortion is a touchy subject, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to generalize all pro-choicers as flippant party girls looking for a satanic birth control option.
•October 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment
I’m sitting here listening to the Cure like a fucking asshole all because my football team lost; talk about a contradiction. I should be angrily pounding my desk while the lead singer for Seether grumbles on in another verse about punching his father or something. I should be banging my wife doggy style on top of a moving car or throwing a torch into a pile of books while I fire my M-16 at hip level. But I’m not. I’m sitting here listening to Robert Smith crone away the numbness eating at my heart. I transform my entire being into my favorite sports teams, and while there is definitely a way to go overboard in fan support, I believe that having no loyalty to a team is equally as bad. For instance, refusing to stay sober for your kid’s Christmas play while you and another Dad watch the game on your phone is awful. No one in their right mind would support such behavior; can you imagine the screaming children and upset parents as you have to be escorted out by a balding principle? Whiskey breath stinging the eyes of those close to you while you hurl chairs and threaten to sodomize the very essence of their souls. It’d be terrible and make your family hate you, but on some very distant and hidden level, I respect that kind of devotion. Teams transcend your physical being- all actions, from the front office to the players on the field- represent characteristics you personally relate to. Working hard, fighting to the last second, honorably shaking hands with an opponent; these are not just sports lessons, but little victories we see everyday. It’s easy for some to lump most sports into the negative. Sure, there’s cheating everywhere, and the monetary riches of success push even the most honest man to extremes. Drug and alcohol fueled sex tapes knock even our most beloved role models into piles of broken debris…but…it’s not gonna stop me from supporting my team. It would be so much easier wafting through life with no affiliations or love- I could protect my sanity, but at the price of my personality. I’m an all or nothing kind of guy, and while I work daily to balance the extremes of my life, I find it terrifying to contemplate an existence without some type of line drawn in the proverbial sand. Neutrality is fine for the legal system, but goddammit I am not neutral with my sports, and the Cure is a fine musical group.
•October 1, 2010 • Leave a Comment
Guess what? I’m not dead. I’ve taken a nine month sabbatical from writing about shit people don’t care about. The best part is, I have no good reason why I stopped writing. I didn’t get married, I wasn’t shipped off to war and I didn’t get syphilis from passing out head first on a toilet seat at Denny’s. I just wasn’t feeling “it.” “It” is a strange partner in crime for me; anger, frustration, excitement all squished together like an enchilada. Inspiration, if you will, comes to me in these compact food stuffs and like any good meal the sensation of being “full” passes to re-emerge on its own mystical schedule. So that’s where I’m at; sitting at a table, my paws clutching over sized eating utensils, stomach mumbling like a gagged S&M submissive bobbing in nipple clamp pain. Who/what is my target, you may be thinking…well, I have none. I’m still a fucking hypocrite, I’m amazingly against any type of mainstream cultural controls but I’ll be the first guy in the movie theater to shush the shitty group of talking teens. Yin and yang, chaos and order; these are my nightmares now a days. Struggling with the normal daily pressure of a plugged in twenty something squaring off against my devilishly delicious imagination. One or the other wins, and for the past nine months, normalcy has won on the surface. Sure, I’m still the guy spending 3 hours at the bar expounding on his movie idea of an overweight vampire who masturbates outside windows. I just have been doing it less and less these days. And they have been haunting days spent looking in the mirror or chasing career options. But that’s over and I’m not gonna let “it” win. I’m going to flesh out the most terrifying dreams of madness and intrigue on this site, and it’ll be my oasis for showcasing the capture of chaos in a jar, displayed like a lightning bug. You better be fucking ready to die…and whatever you do, don’t show my Mom what I write.