Travel back with me if you will to a glorious time a year of greatness the taxes were low the drugs were good and the woman didn't give ya AIDS even if you put it in their butt. Surely the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eighty six was a year to best all years besides for 1985 which really was a kickass year in and of itself. Just ask William Gibson. Also I been shat out my mams hairy vagina that year so in a sense 1985 really was the crest of the wave as far as I'm concerned. But 1986 did had its moments, one of which will go down in history because Urotsukidoji was released that year. The Man. The Legend. Toshio Maeda brought forth from his genius fuzzy Nipponese head a great work of time, much less great than Berserk but nonetheless a gift from that place where myth and story meet and are swimming together gloriously in the vaultless seas of creativity. Overcoming great adversity, Maeda struggled against insurmountable oppression to bring us the promethean Legend of the Overfiend. For what does a man of Japan love in life more than porn? Hah! Mount Fuji of course but even Hokusai himself was a fond fondler of octopus tentacley vaginas. Alas Maeda the Mighty was the genius who singlehandedly dared to defy the loathesome and vile censorship laws of Nippon. A man who saw a great mischief and decided to take a stand! This is what makes Urotsukidoji one of the greatest love stories ever told for the tale itself is a labor of love from the start. Maeda truly understands and loves womans as attested by the fact that the constant fucking of them by grotesque demons and monsterously muscular beasts is exactly what every woman wants and yearns for after they grow out of the unicorn phase. The genie in Disney's Aladdin will attest to the fact that Ten Thousand years will give ya such a crick in the neck but it only took the Overfiend 3,000 years of slumber before his semen became caustic enough to spontaneously combust the naughty night shift nurse! Indeed many life lessons can be had by paying close careful attention to Urotsukidoji, firstly that if you ever get destroyed in a battle you can always fuck the life force away from your wifes nymphettes in hell with your double pronged snake penis and in doing so get yourself a real badass spider demon body. Secondly that ferris wheels is great places to fuck the shit out of womens, the heightness of it coupled with the circular motion really wets the panties like nothing else. Probably the best take home message of the entire series would be that if there is one thing closer than a boy and his dog in this life it is probably the Overfiend and his demon womb. Like the great Shiva-Destroyer of olde Hindy Lore the Overfiend is capable of great destruction yet not entirely without a heart for you see instead of destroying all of creation as originally intended, the Overfiend pulled a Grinch and what with his heart growing three whole sizes in one day decided to remake the world and stop blowing shit up with his multiple headed tree trunk dick that ejaculates fucking lazer beams. Fucking lazer beams from out his dickholes. PewPewPew! Fuck you Japan I love you so much. Probably it is pretty important to consider that Nazi's can summon devils too, I bet you anything they done pulled a King Solomon them Nazis and had the demons to building their ovens with what to roast the Jews in. Without a doubt Akemi Ito is the luckiest little whore in Tokyo and that Overfiend bakin away in her womb is proof of that. But don't take my word for it, just ask Levar Burton the next time you get a chance. (81,616)
Heil Mary, cum on face, the chin is dripping; typical art thou among women, and corrupted is the fecundity of thy womb, Abortion. Whore Mary, Mother of Fuck, be exploited by the breadwinners now and at the hour of your vivisection. Fuck You.
Great Bastard who art imaginary, hollow be thy name. No kingdom won, no will to be done, this Earth entombs our heaven. Give us each day our daily grain of morphine, free of debt and then let us finally feel better. Lead us into evil and please for fucks sake push the button already. -I, Motherfucker (66,303)
Please allow me to introduce myself I am a man of ill health and waste. My budget doesn’t allow for much else and the notion of being ‘upwardly mobile’ makes me regret being born under the banner of King Reagan. Alas, the King is dead thus long live the fucking King. As similarly as a seer on a mountain can accurately survey the landscape I’ll just use my own special vantage point for your personal edification and reflection. Contrary to popular opinion, the phenomenon of ‘broke ass white boy’ is nothing new. There have actually been white people who have fallen on hard times throughout history believe it or not. Please don’t ask me to name any names of any proper poor palies; anomia is a bitch… but those little street urchin shits that Charles Dickens always wrote about immediately spring to mind. I’m not here to swing on the nuts of Dickens though so let’s get down to getting down. Today’s topic of discussion is R.A.B.S.: Rich Ass Bored Shits. R.A.B.S. is definitely a new phenomenon but put your ear to the ground and you’ll be shown that the Lords of This World are slowly phasing out this particular biological meme; most likely because they find it just as fucking annoying as everyone else. R.A.B.S. are aspiring yuppies who will fail in their yuppiedom just as hard and fast as they have failed in every other facet of their miserable existences. This inevitable doom is caused by no genuine shortcomings whatsoever; R.A.B.S. are the most intelligent, resourceful, educated and connected people you will ever regret being introduced to. The cause of spontaneous R.A.B.S. failure is due to the inability to quit fucking bitching and obsessing over the perceived imperfections of life. Rather than apply common sense to sensory perceptions and consult the memory bank when in doubt, R.A.B.S. find it easier to stick themselves inside an extremely negative and self-defeating mental cacoon of impending doom. This cacoon births no exquisite marmoreal winged moth or fleetingly beautiful butterfly but instead will dissolute all it comes into contact with. This continues in a Sisyphean fashion until something true enough penetrates the semi-permeable membrane of backwards ass thinking. Upon puncture the envelope expands rather than deflates as one might expect. The cause of random expansion is unknown at this time but evidence points to the misery loves company phenomenon. As we all know the best kind of misery is manufactured misery and nothing attracts vulgar artifacts as consistently as this special blend of bullshit. Once the R.A.B.S. crew has assembled into some amalgamated Voltron of Poor Me the real fun begins. Team R.A.B.S. will continue to flyff their parents’ monies on drugs, contraception, drugs, overpriced status symbols, drugs, nutritionally vacant foodstuffs, drugs, flavor of the month electronic gadgets, drugs and entrances to sweat encrusted clubs where the drinks cost more than a bottle of the decent stuff and the DJ’s worst nightmare is the crossfader somehow slipping away from the extreme right and left of the mixer whilst in the middle of queuing up the next Lil’ Wayne mp3 on Serato. This continues until the boredom of the R.A.B.S. becomes an all consuming conflagration of voiding desiccation, the R.A.B.S. crew becomes despondent and horrible things begin happening for no reason other than that they are something happening. In the sense that every major airport you visit across the world is exactly the same, the existence and habitations of every R.A.B.S. crew is exactly the same the reason being that familiarity is the best possible surefire way of gilding a cage. At this point R.A.B.S. will dissemble, most likely due to a staged nervous breakdown. Common activities in this point in an individual R.A.B.S. life-cycle include cyclopean made-to-be-broken promises/commitments, fugal talk of ‘finding oneself’, pursuing a religion that doesn’t properly appreciate right angles, three figure vacations that last less than a month and above all else going out of their way to be an obnoxious fucking cunt to everyone they come into contact with. This is the basic life cycle of the R.A.B.S. individual but the actual ethnography can fracture the soundest of minds and is best left to a better funded and unsaner person than I.
In these hectic holiday times it is so easy to get caught up in the bustle of things; buying presents, running last minute errands, picking up relatives at the airport, chasing gin with whiskey, making sure that grandma is still alive and knows who she is, etc. sometimes I think we as people forget about the true nature of the holiday season which is worship and devotion to our one true lord and savior; my mystikal master, Satan. It may very well be that Baby King Jew himself was born on Christmas day a fuckload of years ago but why waste your life worshiping a Jewish zombie anyways? Satan has existed since before time immemorial and was created ex nihilo rather than shat forth from the voraciously bleeding and gasping-gaping birth canal of an ambiguously virginal she-Jew. Given Lucifer's proficiency for disguise, it isn't all that unreasonable to assume that Satan donned the guise of an endlessly ejaculating angel of rape everlasting and sired the very King of Jews himself between the spread thighs of everyones favorite candle-jar mascot. So before you tie the final drunken knot on your holiday noose and hang your sorry sack of meat until stiff, do please consider who it is you drunkenly mumble your last desperate prayer to. After all, you're going to hell anyways so you might as well start earning brownie points with the angel of the bottomless pit. Word on the street is that hell has an excellent benefits package with plenty of uncomfortable living with promotion options available to the upwardly mobile minion. Keep in mind climbing circles is a pain in the ass without Virgil, but it is so very worth it for it's far from lonely at the top! The Muslims may get 72 virgins of dubious beauty, but down in hell there are literally planets of whores just ripe for the fucking. Now as it is appearing time for my 5:30 AM Wild Turkey enema, I'll be signing off and seeing you all... in hell. (132,026)
It was business as usual, my crew and I had just been buzzed into some ritzy gated community located far far away from the galaxy of drug abuse and wasted potential on the other side of town. The van rolled on and eventually we came to a coastal mansion the likes of which most people never see outside of really trashy high budget low interest Hollywood cinema. We got out of the van and suited up, a three person crew can usually tackle a single in about 3-7 hours depending on the foresight of the ex-bastard and the freshness of the tissues in question. Now when my anonymous collegue opened the door and started immediately yipping in the manner of an excitable rock drummer I couldn’t help but laugh as it was apparent that this was going to be an easy job. Sure enough the corpse was swinging from the golden banister of a double marble staircase gently spinning round and round. Well manicured and impeccably groomed, the very model of gross excess, there was symmetry between the natural beauty of the human form and the excessive mutilation of the corpse’s tissues. My best guess would be, and make no mistake I’m not a coroner, that an elated self mutilation session with a kitchen knife ended in a gasoline soaked swan dive off the balcony with a pre-tied double knotted noose for a necktie. The fact that whoever did this was able to not only open their abdomen but inflict two stab wounds directly to the heart made it evident just how far people will go to off themselves if given to such depressive fugues of suicidal thinking. A box of matches on the banister up top evidenced the futility of perfection but what really got me laughing was the immaculate handwriting on the suicide note we found after cutting down the body: (Part III coming the far side of soon) (55,704)
JG Ballard is no more. It's quickly dawning on me that the best authors are either long dead, extremely aged or freshly entombed. What is more bothersome than legends passing on is that for some strange reason, defying an unclear law of casuality, there seems to be nothing of value replacing them as they fall. There are already more books written than could ever be read, but the silhouette of a crested wave is always a dismal thing to behold. (78,052)
In addition to wasting the majority of my time and money on higher education (whatever the fuck that entails, I’m still not sure myself) and intermittently writing for this here Latewires dot cam, I moonlight as a biorecovery technician. What might you ask exactly is a biorecovery technician? Well, when some cranky fuck up and decides to off themselves in an altogether haphazard and messy fashion . . . lets say a high caliber bullet to the cranium or good old fashioned hari-kari with a kitchen knife, I am the miserable git who scrubs the encrusted brain matter off the toilet bowl and mops coagulated blood off of the bathroom floor. My business is death and business is good, always always good. A glamorous job it most certainly is and not without a modest compensation. Lemme tell ya, if you decide to become an aesthetic and swear off sex et cetera becoming a biorecovery techinician is the perfect job for you. As an aside, most of the television shows and movies portray the spectacle of human death horribly horribly wrong. You would probably be surprised at just how vigorously the 6 quarts of human blood tends to leech out of an open gash or gaping bullet hole and even more surprised at just how boring and drama free the aftermath of a life gone wrong can actually be. As bizarre as it sounds, the majority of people who off themselves are actually well off and extremely well connected contrary to popular opinion that only miserable loner types end themselves prematurely. Most suicides are highly educated people and intelligent to boot, which is good because it makes my job a whole lot easier to do when the ex-bastard has the decency and foresight to lay down some Visquine before going through with their last act. Of course some jobs always stand out and as always in a grim job, it’s the gallows humor that makes it bearable. So let me share with you the story of my favorite job to date: we will call it Holey Shit. (Part II Coming Soon!) (55,647)
Artist: Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter Album: Like, Love, Lust & The Open Halls of the Soul Year: 2007 Label: Southern Lord Website: here Shows: 04/10/09 @ Tractor Tavern in Seattle, Washington feat. Marissa Nadler & Whiting Tennis DL Link: here Buy CD: here Buy Vinyl: here
A more rock album as opposed to the earlier one. Solid instrumentation and some polished lyrics. Vocals remain pretty much the same although in some songs it picks up a bit. The packaging of the vinyl edition is quite nice and makes for a worthy musical purchase as opposed to compact dicks which are guaranteed to stop working correctly the day after purchase and begin make noises like something from a Japanese forced insect rape porno movie everytime you play them. Not really much else to add, I'll throw up some other stuff in a bit. Spring break proved once again this year to be nothing more than a scantily clad cock tease.
In case you needed a bit of a preview:
Special thanks to Dr. Bob Dopplegopplegus. This one's for Gabby! (59,001)
This is a pretty decent album and something a little bit off the beaten path. I think this band would probably have flown right by most peoples radar if they hadn't done some work for the Boris & Sunn O))) collaboration back in '06. A nice blend of pop and country melodies punctuated by some quite fitting female vocals. The better songs are the ones which let the lyrics and vocals work their magic. It seems strange music to come from the Northwest, some of these songs would probably go better in a southern backdrop I'd assume. Some similarities between Lucinda Williams for sure, but the Richard and Linda Thompson album I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight album also evokes something of a similar mood. The first two tracks are definately the best ones on this disc, while tracks 4 and 7 are the skippable ones. Everything in between ranges from good to decent, and really the album can be listened to ccompletely through without skipping anything with only a few annoying minutes. Some of this bands later albums are a bit more upbeat, but this one is really something of a gem in its own regard. From what I've gathered over the intertubes, Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter seem to perform live just as well if not better than they do in the studio, so definately check it out if you can. Some melancholic Northwestern tunes to help you all ride out this winter in true hibernator fashion.
Some more music maybe in the days to come, I've got a few more from this band and then Rocks in Rolls. (63,111)
So here are the top ten reasons why you would be better off having HIV/AIDS:
1) You will finally get laid.
Between the support groups and the Cure rallies, you are gonna be smothered in nasty pockmarked AIDSex from noon to night. If you are a homosexual man, you probably will never spend the night alone again for the rest of your days which probably will be more than you might imagine (no) thanks to modern medicine. Assuming your AIDS was the result of a casual affair and not some horrible medical accident, you probably were already getting laid, but sheer statistics are in your favor now as you can have unsafe sex with as many fellow AIDSians as you wish with no harm whatsoever. What are you scared of a little chlamydia now that you have full blown fucking AIDS? Pussy.
2) You can finally play the victim.
Yes, you love to be a victim. You love the United States Prime Time Victim show. Bells, Gila Copters, Church Bells...
3) You can chop up and snort the drug cocktail and get really fucking high.
This one pretty much single handedly explains every post Star Wars executive decision made by George Lucas as well as the careers of Milli Vanilli and I'm guessing Vanilla Ice as well. While cocaine may be one hell of a drug, HIV/AIDS medicines will literally allow you to watch your brain sodomize itself and bleed in hi-def realtime spacetime continuum hyper lucid subspace transfer r-type laser canon motherbrain final boss mode. Shit is intense, don't beleive me? Ask those kids in South Africa, motherfuckers know what is up.
The downside... shit's costly. Upside? Shit's costly.
4) Your parents will probably let you move back in.
Free internet porn and a couch to jerk off on, life is good once again. Probably still not worth living, but good enough to wake up for at least. Just make sure to hide all your cumrags at the bottom of the hamper or you gonna have some 'splainin to do!
5) Any shitheel you've fucked recently who had the nerve to avoid you and never call you back is now officially and totally fucked.
Hey to be fair, so are you. But s/he totally fucking deserved it.
6) No one will ever kick your ass again.
If the situation ever begins to occur, simply start spitting and coughing and loudly proclaiming that you are an AIDS ridden walking corpse and a derelict of healthiness. Not even the methed will fuck with you.
7) You'll probably get a job out of it.
You can always work as a test subject for experimental medical studies. I mean, what have you got to lose?
8) Ween wrote a song about you.
Dude, its fucking Ween. Geener and Deaner, man.
And since I'm myself ridden with the HIV/AIDS and cannot successfully count, we will stop there for today children. Reading this post in its entirety will not protect you from AIDS, be careful what you allow to enter your rectums boys and girls. This is the Cocktail Commando snorting another rail of AIDS meds in your honor while signing off. (95,148)
As it happens, the FDA and many other so called consumer watchdog groups worldwide don't really monitor what goes into many consumables. In fact, not even many companies monitor what they put into their own product formulas! And these formulas are constantly changing. Remember, these are substances you allow to contact your body daily possibly even more than once a day! Some of the ingredients are quite minor and cause no great threat, but some are known carcinogens. If you don't smoke cigarettes because you don't want tar in your lungs, what sense would it make for you to use a shampoo containing tar as a major ingredient? The website ranks these ingredients on a number scale from 0-7 (or 8 or 10) depending on how harmful the ingredients are and sometimes even contains links to studies etc. Browse around and check out some of the brands you have sitting around in your shower, you'll be suprised!
I realize this post applies more to woman than to men, so for all of our 3 ladywires, here ya go. And for those about to douche, we salute you! (56,268)
Ah, the whale.
A noble beast, the whale is and perhaps it just may be the freest of all mammals. Can you imagine anything better for the soul than swimming through the cerulean depths fighting off vermicious giant squid and cavorting with all manner of aquatic beasties? Swimming with siphonophore’s, dallying with dolphins and in general killing all manner of lesser fish with noggin conks from your massively monolithic boner? It may just be me, being myself somewhat a man of the sea but if there is a finer way to be than you should enlighten me for it’s the best as far as I can see.
Having just crawled out from under the rock (located on mars and full of spiders mind you) I’ve been living under for the past 20 years it has come to my attention that there is an all too serious effort being put forth from super apes all over the globe to ‘Save the Whales.’ This in itself is a chivalrous cause, and if it’s a bit egotistical and completely impractical well so fucking what. After all, how much help can a group of cacophonous land dwelling monkeys really be when it comes to helping out creatures many times their own size? Again, saving the whales is a noble sentiment for a noble beast but let us add a bit of sense to this endeavor!
If we are to really save the whales and not just make a show about it, reality and ideals must somewhere collide and in this grim union we must make practical sense of some issues for the greater good of man and giant boner’d leviathan. First there is the rather major issue of the megaton carcasses of x-whales to be dealt with. If this issue cannot be resolved then all efforts to keep whales safe will have been for naught because beaches and resorts the world over will quickly be shut down by malodorous stench and the bulky blight of something wholly unwholesome. Taking into account that the majority of whale carcasses washing up on shore are going to be freshly decomposing or completely rank, it seems reasonable to assume that most whale bulk could be used in the manufacturing of fancy decorative soaps (with liberal scented oils added) and high-grade pet foods. Also, in the laudable attempt to kill two or more pelicans with one boulder, the feeding of whale blubber to vagrants and other ne'er-do-wells must be instituted as a matter of common practice. What remains is the issue of putting to practical use the skeletal remnants of our barnacled blue buddies, bones much too large to be efficiently relocated. What I propose is nothing resembling a Cetacean ossuary; no what must be done is to create dwelling places out of these relics.
What you see above is a lifelike and to-scale anatomically correct draft of a blue whale skeleton. Now imagine if you will a few patches here and there, a chimney sticking out through one eyehole and a little round door with a doorknob in the middle of it straight out of the Hobbiton Shire. Economical and energy efficient material between the rib bones and electrical/speaker wiring running from the skull down through the spine and supplying various outlets and entertainment pods located throughout the dwelling places. For the high-end whale-dweller, some solar panels and a little bench encircled garden area near the tailbones would not be uncalled for, even the penis bone could be utilized as a storage shed for whatever nonsense people will be pack ratting away once the whales are liberated from the tyranny of Japanese whaling fleets. I suspect some form of highly nutritious algae based cheeto, but don’t buy stock based on my predictions, my oracle isn’t quite what it used to be. It reasons to stand that the smaller whales could make fine orphanages whereas the colossal marmoreal remnants of a mighty blue whale could provide shelter for a large family or even house a concert hall for a little beachside rock n’ roll. Osteoporotic whales could even be utilized as massive bee colonies, or at least low-income housing for destitute swallows.
So if you were one of those malcontented fellows all to happy to sit on the sidelines and let your sea-faring mammalian cousins go the way of the dinosaur, just imagine how fucking cool it would be to stash your gardening supplies inside the erectile ossification of a defunct fin whale. Exercise your neglected imagination and feel the amplified vibrations of an amplified guitar as it caterwauls its way down the hollowed thoracic cavity of a blue whale. Next time a chance in your life comes to lend a hand to the whales, remember that you too could be growing your organic cannabis inside the inside of a truly freed Willy. (86,479)
Dear Santy Claws, I hold this letter in my hand consider it a plea, a petition, a kind of prayer. There are two people here and I want you to kill them...
No... wait! On second thought, I'll use my Jesus' Birthday Credit for something even better!
What I want Santy, what I really fucking want, besides sympathetic control of my cremaster and dartos muscles (party tricks galore oh lord) is .flv hosting on Latewire and the ability to put flash videos on the front page like all the big boys do on the other fancy blogs. I promise not to put any (geriatric) porno up, scout's honor! Work your Christmas magic Sinter Klaus, don't leave me behind, utilize the remaning Kaballah practitioners of the world if you must, for this is something I want ever so dearly! Oh modern avatar of Thor, with your thunderous hammer and annoying reindeer, grant me this one wish and I promise I'll get around to finishing the main plot of Thundercats. I can even say that I won't attempt to host anything unweildy in size! I don't know what more I can bring to the table here, St. Nick... but I am going to fist Mrs. Klaus in a completely nonsexual way if you do not acquiesce and I may even consider unleashing Jack Frost who has as you know always had a habit of nipping at your ho's. (53,109)