What Went Wrong at Sandy Hook Elementary

I have been told on several occasions that I have an overdeveloped sense of reasoning.  While nothing is wrong or inaccurate in many of the conclusions I arrive at (far from it, really), the aforementioned excuse has been offered up on several occasions where a) I arrive at a conclusion, b) the conclusion is airtight and perfect, and c) I'm the only person in the fuckin room who sees things this particular way.  In other words...it's my consolation prize for being "right" and yet having every person in the room at odds with me.

A Rubix cube was the first example of this I can recall.  It was Christmas morning back in the early 1980s, we were up in these beautiful cabin-style homes my extended family had built for themselves up in the woods of Pollock Pines.  Someone handed me a Rubix cube.  I was probably five years old.

I didn't know what to do with it.  The person went on to explain:

"You want to get each side to have only one color."

"OK..." [I tentatively tap on one of the sides] "So all green?"

"You got it."

"OK..." [I timidly give one section of the cube a half-spin.]

"And you want to be quick about it!  You want to go as fast as you can."

So, three or four minutes later, I produced a completed Rubix cube to the regiment of adults in the kitchen.  At first there were some amazed faces staring down at me.  One of them reached out a hand to take the cube from me in awe (don't recall which one).  Finally one of them asked something to the effect of:

"Do you remember how you did it?"

Of course I remembered - and I told them.

"I just peeled all the stickers off and rearranged them."

Whichever one had taken the cube from me now began to inspect it closer.  He or she began to see evidence corroborating my story and began to show the others.  Finally one of these half-drunken party poopers called me out on it:

"That's cheating!  You cheater!!"

Hm.  I love my family very much.  Each and every one of them.  And the older I get, the more I love them.  But - and in no way does thirty years having elapsed between that moment and today diminish any of what I am about to say, as I mean this every bit as much today as I meant it back then - FUCK YOU, aunt or uncle (whoever you were).  Fuck you for giving me a task and a set of conditions and then getting pissy with me when I completed the task according to your conditions.  Call me a cheater.  I'll cut your fuckin head off.  Next time explain shit a little clearer.

Anyways.  See what I mean?  You take all the available data and instruction (if applicable), you arrive at a conclusion....and it's like you're the last person on earth.  Suddenly everyone around you is a complete stranger.

The massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School has me experiencing much of the same feelings of alientation and isolation.  Seems I can't even turn on a radio without reinforcing the fact that many, many people are coming up with conclusions regarding the shooting which are dramatically different from my own. 

So, with that, I am going to offer you all something I rarely do: a glimpse inside how my brain works.  We are going to examine the different components to the Sandy Hook shooting just as my brain examines them and we'll see what conclusion(s) we/I arrive at.

Ninja's Note: if you are at all emotional about the shooting, please consider holding off on continuing any further until you're feeling better.  Sensitivity is not my prime directive at this point; an objective analysis of fact is.  I may say something that may seem insensitive and upset some folks, this is entirely not my intention.  You've been warned.

1. Sandy Hook Elementary School

Alright, what do we have here: I see basketball courts, an adjacent lot with four-square lines painted.  I see a baseball diamond.  An access road (Dickenson Drive) with a baseball diamond on one side and a large grassy area.  A parking lot which may be designed for one-way traffic.  A series of classrooms bunched together in the center.

Now, according to information taken from virtually all witness accounts, on the day of the shooting, did anything go fundamentally wrong on the level we are currently examining that day?  No.  The school - everything we're looking at here - did exactly what it was supposed to do: it allowed parents to come & drop off their kids.  It contained the children in the various areas (classrooms, recess areas, etc).  It provided what it was supposed to provide.

Now some sick asshole shows up and starts shooting the place up.  What happened to the school at that point?  Walls received bulletholes.  Glass broke.  Frightening to imagine, sure, but - I ask again - did anything go fundamentally wrong with the school up to and including this point?  No.  Not at all.  You shoot a classroom wall, and it reacts like any other wall out there: it receives a bullethole.  This is exactly what it's supposed to do.

The school did exactly what it was supposed to do.

2. The Children of Sandy Hook Elementary

Now, what did the children of Sandy Hook Elementary do that day?  Well, according to information taken from virtually all witness accounts...the kids went to school.  The kids sat in school, like they were supposed to. 

A sick asshole shows up and opens fire.  Not part of the lesson plan and kinda scary.  What happens then? 

The kids screamed and had to be calmed down.  This is exactly what's supposed to happen in this situation.  Now, here comes the part where you may find yourself upset, and I encourage you to go no farther if you feel this might be the case.

In the interests of continuing this discussion to completion, we're going to have to talk about something unpleasant and upsetting now.  We're going to talk about shooting kids, but only from a standpoint of establishing a link in the chain of reasoning.  I have to cover this.

If you - for whatever reason - take it upon yourself to point a gun at a child and squeeze the trigger, the following are a list of potential outcomes:

A. the gun misfires.
B. you miss.
C. you hit and wound the child superficially.
D. you hit and mortally wound the child (arterial damage, gutshot, etc.).
E. you hit and instant-kill the child (head shot, etc.).

Now, from this perspective: did the children of Sandy Hook Elementary do anything wrong that day?  No, absolutely not.  They went to school like good kids, they participated like good kids.  And when they were shot at?  Some ran, some screamed.  Some cried.  Some escaped.  Exactly what kids are supposed to do in that kind of situation.  The ones that were shot?  Unfortunately...most (if not all) died.  But again - and I'm sorry to keep saying this, because it sounds pretty cold even for me: but that's what happens when you shoot a kid.  They become wounded.  They die.

The children of Sandy Hook did exactly what they were supposed to do that day.

3. The Teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary

We're going to mention right up front that the same laws of physics and biology that govern the children also apply to these teachers heroes.  This will save me from stating the obvious (again) and risk upsetting anyone.

These women did exactly what they were supposed to do that day.  They went to work.  They worked with our children.  When someone showed up and brought Hell to their doorstep, they tried to save our children as best they could.  And, sadly, when someone decided to kill them - they died.

Horrifying.  But the teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary School did exactly what they were supposed to do that day.

4. The Guns

Alright, so, what do we have here: we have a Bushmaster .223 assault rifle (same weapon used in the Malvo/Muhammed shootings from a decade ago or so) and a Sauer & a Glock. 

So...did the guns do what they were supposed to do that day? 

(I expect that some of you may begin to have trouble following me here, so I'll try and establish my perspective before continuing: I am examining a) what are we currently discussing [guns], b) how is the item established in "A" supposed to perform on it's most fundamental level [shoot bullets], and c) did the item established in "A" perform as it was supposed to ["B"] on the day in question.)

They absolutely did.  When you pull the trigger of a loaded gun, a bullet is supposed to come out.  Triggers were pulled, bullets flew.  In those instances where the gun was pointed at a kill zone?  The target died. 

The guns did exactly what they were supposed to do that day.

...so what exactly went wrong??

5. This Fuckin Lunatic Asshole Right Here

Ding ding ding!  We have a winner.

Let me back up a bit.

We've eliminated the school grounds as being even remotely responsible for what went wrong.  We've eliminated the heroic children and teachers.  We've examined the guns and their role in the horrific day and quickly and easily concluded that the guns carried out their assigned (albeit horrifying) task exactly as they were supposed to do.

So - let's look at the decisions made and carried out that day by one Adam Lanza, complete piece of shit and Hell's newest celebrity occupant.

Unfortunately this piece of shit is a dead piece of shit so we'll never really get to know with 100% certainty why he did what he did.  But how about this: let's use our imagination a bit and try to see if we can't establish that - on every imaginable level - that what he did was inexcusable. 

I'm trying to come up with a set of circumstances wherein it would be "OK" on some level to shoot up a school.  Hmm, let's see...wife is taken hostage.  I'm told that if I don't shoot up a school they're going to kill her.  Hmm.

Yeah, you know what??  Even in this situation I'm still a complete piece of human fuckin shit if I walk into a school full of kids and start shooting.  My reasons (to save my wife) might be moral and just to me, but I would have to expect that - when all is said and done - I, Droid Hayabusa, would be eternally memorialized as a complete piece of shit who shot kids.

So - OK, although we'll never know with complete certainty WHY this idiot did what he did - I think we've pretty well neutralized that point.  Does it matter?  FUCK NO it doesn't matter, because as we've just established, there's NEVER any reason whatsoever to shoot up a school.

So now I'll ask: did Adam Lanza do what he was supposed to do on the day in question?
__________________________________________________________________________________

Without getting on a political soapbox (or trying to avoid it as much as possible at least) I'd like to conclude this post by admitting how utterly flabbergasted I am that we're even eyeing gun control as a proposed nationwide corrective action for what went down.

We've existed as a nation of gun-toting folks for over two hundred years now.  Suddenly over the last fifteen years we've had a rash of school shootings: kids, parents, whatever getting pissed enough to spray schools down with lead. 

Why do you think politicians are so quick to sieze on to gun control as the only solution (even though as we've just established...guns did what they were supposed to that day!!)??  The answer I see is a simple one: because it's EASY.  It's EASY to draft a little piece of legislation and shave off just a little more of our liberty and then get in front of the cameras and act like you've won the battle.

...until the next time a school is shot up with a black market gun.  Then you're gonna look like an ass, huh?  Or how about this: someone goes apeshit with a sword in a preschool.  Or someone fills up a van with oil drums full of gasoline & drives it thru the Homecoming Dance at your kid's high school.

I would think a much more effective solution to the actual fundamental problem (which is this, in case it's in any way unclear: THE FUNDAMENTAL PROBLEM IS PEOPLE GETTING PISSED AND/OR FUCKIN CRAZY ENOUGH TO WANT TO HURT STRANGERS.  THAT is your problem here) would be to find out why, in spite of the fact that guns have been around since the country was founded over two hundred years ago, we're suddenly just NOW getting pissed enough to turn them on one another.

That's your problem.

Don't let them cloud your vision.

We love you Connecticut.  You're in our hearts.

- D.H.

Men's Room Survival 101

You're welcome Planet Earth - yet again I take time out of my busy day to try and educate the idiot masses on how to be a decent human being rather than a complete piece of shit. 

Today's topic: how to enter, navigate, and use a public men's restroom without coming across as a creepy molestor or person who maybe has a poop fetish.

Step One - Entry

Here's a pointer that applies to ANY door with no window: always assume there's someone standing within swinging range on ther other side and DON'T open it like Rambo would. Some extra-special geniuses (including D.H.'s employer) mount their paper towel dispensers to where a person has to stand within the door's swinging range to dry their hands.

Upon entry, your first task is to GLANCE around - and I do mean GLANCE - using your peripheral vision as much as possible and try and determine if you're alone. Remember - your primary goal at this stage is to identify any others and to AVOID EYE CONTACT at all costs.

NOTE: this is the last chance you will have to ABORT with zero residual awkwardness, so depending on the identities of those you might identify, you should ask yourself: do I really want to do this with THIS guy in here? If the answer is no (and I encourage you to err on the side of caution and ABORT if you're even slightly uncertain), initiate Operation: Abortion and turn to the sink and wash your hands. Do so confidently, as though that's the sole reason you came in to the bathroom in the first place.

Assuming you establish the presence of additional human life, and assuming you opt to NOT abort, this is the one circumstance where the most polite move involves not greeting the other party (or parties) in any way or even acknowledging their presence. Act like you haven't noticed them and prepare to move on to Step 2 - Navigation.

I don't care how badly you have to fart, either - now is not the time. Don't start farting.

Step 2 - Navigation

Step two starts off with an instant, immediate hardball decision: can I get in anywhere? You're basically taking into account your needs (#1 vs #2), comparing them with the current occupants of the restroom and available stalls/urinals (keep in mind that - although a stall can be used to satisfy either need [#1 or #2], that door does not swing both ways), and deciding if you can move forward. If not, exit.

Now, assuming you can move forward and you have options? You want to pick the unoccupied stall or urinal that is the furthest away from as many occupants as you can. Example - let's say we're looking at a wall of urinals; "X" represents an occupied urinal and "O" represents an unoccupied urinal:

O O X O

No brainer, right? You move far left:

X O X O

What about this scenario, where there are only three urinals:

O X O

That's right! Trick question. At first glance, you likely think it doesn't matter. But you haven't taken into account the position of the toilets!! You want to occupy the "O" furthest from the stalls now, since the position of the single urinal occupant is equidistant to all available options.

So, assuming the toilets/stalls are to the left, you would position yourself as such:

O X X

The same goes for deciding on a toilet/stall. The trick here is determining whether or not they're occupied. In many cases the doors will hang open just slightly if unoccupied. It may be necessary to test the door. If so, PUSH or tap the door, do not pull. If the door is unlocked, the bounceback from a light push will tell you so without flinging the door wide open. It also forces you to maintain a body position off to the side of the door, so even if it does swing open further than intended, you won't be staring directly inside. You never know - there may be someone in there who forgot to use the lock. You want to give both he and you time enough for him to cry out BEFORE you see him sitting there and you both make eye contact and your lives change forever.

DO: Keep your eyes dead-straight ahead of you or better yet - pointed at the ground. Move quickly, deliberately, and quietly.

DON'T: Talk to anyone. Acknowledge anyone with anything other than a nod (and only then if it's a diplomatic and/or political risk not to, such as your boss is present and he breaks protocol and greets you first). Peek through the cracks around the edges of a stall door to determine whether or not it's occupied. Start unzipping your pants. Start farting.

Remember: EYES FORWARD OR DOWN.

You want to walk in as straight a line as possible, allowing at least three feet of clearance between yourself and any other occupants. In other words, avoiding other occupants by at least three feet is your Prime Directive, with your Secondary Directive being walk in a straight line towards your destination. Here is a helpful acronym to help you remember - EWOK!

E – EYES down
W – WALK straight
O – OCCUPANTS avoided by at least three feet
K - you will get KILLED if you peek over the partition

Step 3 - Stepping up to the Plate

Once you arrive at your destination – remember, eyes down, walk straight, avoid other occupants – you need to stop two steps away from the porcelain (toilet or urinal) and take stock of your destination; particularly be on guard for hazards you hadn’t noticed from afar. You’ll want to note if there’s shit smeared all over the walls of the stall, for example, or (even worse) all over the toilet seat. Small problems – such as the water in the urinal being yellow – you may opt to correct yourself (in this example, you would simply flush). Large problems – such as a dead fetus floating in bloody toilet water – may cause you to deem your destination unusable. In this case, you need to make a decision: are there other available facilities, or should I just leave and return later? Always remember: there’s no shame in walking away and leaving a dead fetus floating in the toilet (unless you were his mother, of course…you should have flushed. Whore.).

NOTE for STALL OCCUPANTS ONLY: once inside the stall with the door closed behind you, your first move is to double-check that the door is locked, then push on it to make sure the lock is working. Your second move is to examine the cracks around the perimeter of the stall door. Is there space enough to see through? How much space? What you are ultimately trying to establish here is this: will you be visible through the cracks while seated on the toilet? The answer to this question affects how far you are permitted to drop your pants: if you are visible through the door, then you may only drop your pants to the area of your leg where butt becomes leg. At no point while seated (or any other time) may your pants drop below mid-thigh. If you’re completely concealed inside the stall…fuggit, drop those trousers around your ankles for all I care.

Assuming you opt to stay, the next steps are simple: you clear your throat (mandatory, helps you look laid back, which helps keep other occupants calm), you unzip your pants, and you close the two-step gap between you and your facility.

DO: remain calm. Keep your eyes fixed on the porcelain and immediate surroundings.

DON’T: Panic. Whip out the dong or drop pants until you’re flush against the porcelain. Talk to anyone, no matter how uncomfortable you are. This is particularly true if the person is using adjacent porcelain: you WILL be tempted to talk, if only to ease your own discomfort. DO NOT DO SO. You will be breaking Men’s Room Rule Numero Uno if you do: no talking with exposed junk, ESPECIALLY if your hands are in any way touching said exposed junk.

Step 4: Action

Your goal now is to simply relieve yourself as quickly as possible while attracting as little attention as possible. Yes, you may begin farting now, for example, but don't strain so hard in the interests of being quick that you fart louder than you normally would - this would attract unnecessary attention.

If you are having trouble, uhhh, getting things moving? This can be a delicate thing for urinal users in particular as toilet users are a) anonymous to other toilet users, provided all users follow all the rules here, and b) though not anonymous to urinal users, typical urinal use takes so little time that those who may have identified you will be long gone by the time it's apparent that you're struggling. For those urinal users, though - it can be a complete nightmare: you stand there, you're completely exposed, for whatever reason the pee isn't flowing...you flush...your pores dilate...you begin to perspire...you feel as though the lights have dimmed everywhere else in the bathroom except the light shining on you, which now feels like a spotlight...you feel everyone's eyes on you, judging you. Wondering if you have a kidneystone. Wondering if you have prostate cancer. Wondering if you can even satisfy your wife. Wondering what is WRONG with you??

I can't help you out of that situation, but I can advise you of this: no matter what the problem is, I guarantee the underlying condition (I include prostate cancer in this statement) is nowhere near as bad as having THAT happen again. See your doctor if it happens more than once and switch to stalls only: avoid urinal use entirely.

Oh, that's another thing - always aim your pee stream for the urinal "sweet spot," which is as far up the porcelain as you can go while still maintaining the loud noise of urine hitting water. You want everyone to know there's nothing wrong with you. Trust me.

Once finished, wipe thoroughly (if need be) and flush. If you're in a stall at the same time another stall is occupied, you may opt to postpone flushing if the other occupant flushes first. The goal is to give him time to exit before you emerge from your stall, thus protecting both your anonymity.

NOTE: this never happens while you’re standing at a urinal; for some reason – gratefully – this kind of thing only happens when you’re locked inside a stall. Sometimes, something completely insane will break out in the bathroom while you’re in a stall. When this happens, your strategy is always the same: WAIT IT OUT. Hide out in the stall and wait until the person causing the madness leaves.

Scenario one – you’re sitting there, minding your own business in an otherwise unoccupied bathroom, and someone comes in and immediately breaks protocol by selecting the stall directly next to yours. As soon as he sits down, you hear him chanting to himself a mantra in monotone: “I can do it – I can do it – I can do it – I can do it,” followed immediately by a bongo solo played with the palms of his hands either on the tops of his thighs or maybe his stomach. In this case, you’re best to not only wait it out, but also place a pause on your own business and try to escape notice. Wait for him to leave, then unpause.

Scenario two – you’re sitting there, again alone, and the door opens. This time you hear a bunch of ladies’ voices. Uh oh, you hung over idiot! You went into the wrong bathroom. Now you have to wait it out. Luckily, ladies don’t poop, so it probably won’t take long unless they came in to sixty nine each other. That could take all night.

Scenario three - the main door busts inward so hard it breaks off its hinges. A bunch of construction workers flood the bathroom and start rubbing each other’s bottoms. Music starts playing. Yeah – wait it out.

DO: Complete your business as quickly as possible without attracting undue attention to yourself. Keep your eyes forward AT ALL COSTS. Fart if need be. Aim for the urinal "sweet spot." Put your pants on correctly afterwards. Check to make sure there's no toilet paper stuck to your shoes.

DON'T: Talk to anyone, particularly to the person using the adjacent porcelain. Sing and/or hum.

ESPECIALLY DON'T: Peek over the urinal partition, or even turn your head such that the occupant of the adjacent urinal might suspect you're peeking. Remember - just because the law says he's not supposed to beat you to death with his bare fists doesn't mean a jury will convict him if they're made aware of the fact that he thought you might be peeking.

Step 5 - Exit Strategy

The Art of the Exit, I call it. This is more like a dance, or synchronized swimming at times, depending on how many occupants there are. The primary goal here is to deal with the bullshit handwashing laws that this totalitarian government insists on stuffing down our throats in such a manner that the time you spend at the sinks with any other restroom occupant is minimized and/or completely eliminated. Why?

Well, it all goes back to the eye contact rule. Remember how easy it was to avoid eye contact while you were adjacent to another user at the urinals? All you had to do was keep your eyes forward. Well, here it's a similar setup but with one major, dealbreaking difference: the giant mirror in front of you. You CAN'T look forward because your own reflection will be right in front of you...and standing right next to your reflection? HIS reflection. Remember - your eyes want to LOCK with every other person in the room. These rules are all about setting yourself up for success by eliminating or minimizing your exposure to their sightlines and vice versa. This is going to be no different.

Toilet users: I am gearing this section towards the urinal users for one main reason - toilet users are, as usual, encouraged to just wait it out. Stay seated until you're alone, or at least alone with the rest of the toilet users.

Urinal users: you are going to need to pay close attention to what's going on around you and adapt accordingly to minimize the potential that you & any other urinal occupant are going to flush at the same time (we refer to that moment as the German Standoff). If, for example, you hear the gent at the urinal to your right gritting his teeth and straining to force out a fire hose stream of urine, well...what does that tell you? It tells you that he's sending a message to you, and that message is this: I'm taking the lead, you bring up the rear. In this instance, what you would do would be to slightly pinch down on your shaft to restrict the flow of urine. Remember, once the urine is gone, it's gone and there's no justifiable reason for you to remain at the urinal. Don't blow your pee wad all at once, slow your roll and clamp down on that flow. Don't clamp down too tight, or you'll start sputtering and sound like one of those prostate weirdos. Deep breaths, restrict the flow, and aim for the sweet spot.

Let him race to the finish line: he'll finish up and wash his hands hopefully before the last few drops of your urine hit the toilet water.

The same goes for hearing a toilet flush. Granted, it's a breach of protocol on his part, but it happens occasionally, particularly when you don't aim for the sweet spot and the toilet occupant doesn't hear anything and therefore thinks he's alone. You're going to want to restrict the flow to a mere drizzle and pray to God that a) he does the right thing and hauls ass outta there once he realizes he's not alone, and b) your urine supply lasts until he's gone. Godspeed to you.

When the time comes to make your break for the sink, you're going to want to slam your dong back into your pants & zip as quickly as possible and beeline it for the sink: you never know when someone is going to walk in the door and take stock (outlined in step one above) and decide to ABORT (which means forcing a handwashing), which would put the two of you at the sink together at the same time. Minimize your risk by HURRYING. Get to that sink (make sure the 3' clearance rule remains in effect), hit the soap with one hand and the water with the other. Save time by rubbing the soap in while you're rinsing: not as effective, but you can wash your hands in the drinking fountain in the hallway later when the pressure's off. Dry your hands and GET THE FUCK OUT.

Mission accomplished, soldier. You make me proud. High-five! ...you did wash your hands...right???

A note on electric dryers, i.e. blow dryers: if you work in a place with these horrible things, your exit strategy is completely gimped as these devices force you to remain in place for ungodly lengths of time. I suggest you petition your employer to replace them with paper towels and - in the meantime - refuse to use it. Leave the bathroom with wet hands and dry them on your shirt later when no one is looking.

The Downside to Murder.

And now, a few thoughts on murder:

I pray this victim is a random one.

Murder, I imagine, can be a slippery slope depending on what your underlying motivation is. A soldier, for example, who kills because he or she is either ordered to kill or put into a kill-or-be-killed situation won’t necessarily develop a taste for murder in the same way that someone who murders and reaps a more fulfilling reward.

Scenario one – let’s say you’re extremely uncomfortable in the close proximity of strangers. Let’s say every morning you go for a walk, and every morning this tall lanky doofus walks up behind you and falls in step with you, just a few feet away.

Obviously the first thing that would pop into anyone’s head – your head, my head – is an Official Solicitation for Solution. This is where you simply plug the problem into your brain and ask your brain to work out a solution.

What’s the first, most obvious, easiest solution you can think of? That’s right – cut his f*cking head off and leave him in the gutter. That would be not only the most obvious and easiest solution, it would also guarantee against a recurrence of the situation.

So look what you’ve done – you effectively took action and your world is a better place for it. Right?

Well…yes and no. See, now you’ve gone and taught yourself that MURDER WORKS. So – even though this assface idiot is rotting in hell where he belongs – the world is full of assface idiots. What’s going to happen when you come across another one?

Scenario two – several weeks after your introduction to murder as outlined above, you’re out for your walk and you notice something unusual – a lady whom you recognize as a person who comes out and jogs on her breaks is actually walking. She’s walking. She speeds up when she hears or sees a car approach and her walk breaks into a jog, but then once the car passes she drops back into a slow, slovenly gait.

Obviously this kind of behavior is difficult to tolerate: a woman who wants the world to think she’s jogging when she’s really only walking. Would you grin and bear it if you’d never murdered anyone before? Probably. But what if you’d been successful in not only your first attempt at murder (as outlined above) but also reaped a massive reward for your undertaking?

Spoiler alert: you’re going to chop this bitch’s fucking head off too and leave her in the gutter. NO ONE wants to be out trying to relax and get fresh air and be exposed to someone outright lying to the world. F that.

But now what? You’re practically hooked! You’ve got no reason not to be hooked! You have made multiple dramatic improvements in your life by taking action! Now you’ll never have that goofy bastard (oh, he wears a visor, too – forgot to mention that) walking anywhere near you AND you’ll never have the lying jogging whore dirtying up your sightline.

So what do you do when you’re grocery shopping and someone pushes their cart up behind you and you think they’re maybe a little too close? Maybe you’ll let it slide the first time, but the second time? Let’s face it, you’re gonna pull one of your socks off, you’re gonna take a can of Campbell’s soup, you’re gonna drop said can into said sock, and you’re going to beat that idiot until their skull is shattered into safety glass.

See what happens? Murder causes you to lose the ability to tolerate others, which – in today’s world – is a trait we desperately need to preserve at all costs. People range from irritating shit bags at best to complete failures who are nothing more than a drain on society. There is ALWAYS a reason to off someone, in other words. You need to focus on the reasons to not kill.

Why, you say? Take the above instance. Six months have elapsed since the first murder, so naturally our protagonist has gone further down the rabbit hole that is murder and guess what? Now the entire population of the world is gone and all that remains consists of a) our protagonist, and b) one other dude way over in Kentucky.

Uh oh! Can you say “end of the human race?” Unless Mr. Kentucky is a fertility expert who specializes in growing test tube babies and he’s got a full sack of human eggs, it’s game over.

Further – I would argue that it would take less than a week for Mr. Kentucky to do something that doesn’t sit right with our protagonist.

You ever pulled into a parking lot and even though it’s completely empty, you park at a good distance from the store because you don’t want people around your car? And then as you park, you see another person pull into the lot. That person stays on the complete opposite side of the parking lot and is doing the exact same thing you are: parking away from the front of the store in order to protect his car.

Here is what goes through your head:

[if the car isn’t as nice as yours] “OH GET OFF IT, ASSHOLE, no one wants to park next to your piece of shit Prius. No one’s going to give that hunk of shit a door ding. I’d be more worried about someone keying the whole door off, you hippie piece of shit.”

[if the car is nicer than yours] “OH, OK, RICHIE RICH, way to protect your precious assets, wouldn’t be where you are today if you weren’t always focused on the BOTTOM FUCKING LINE. FUCK YOU, I should slash your tires and teach you there’s more to life than material possessions.”

[regardless of the variety of his car, this is what goes through your head next] “ARRGH why ME, why all these FUCKING PEOPLE have to FLOCK to me like I’m a fucking ASSHOLE MAGNET. Can’t you just fucking STAY AWAY and LEAVE ME IN PEACE??” [at this point you lay your head on the steering wheel and start sobbing.]

So – as illustrated above – even if you’re only being exposed to one person, and even if that person is only guilty of doing that which you are already doing yourself, and even if they’re keeping as far from you as humanly possible – they will still infuriate you.

And there you have it – how murdering a single person can and will lead to the fall of the human race if done in a selfish attempt to make the murderer’s world a better place.

However, just to be clear, I haven’t yet come up with a way to establish with any remote certainty that murder for any of the following reasons will have such an adverse affect on life as we know it:

Money
Food
Revenge
The search to find yourself
Fun
Boredom
Trying to get someone to stop voting just to cancel out your vote
Pure temper tantrum
The punch line to a joke
Population control
Art
Making a political statement
Trying to see if you’re a serial killer
Checking police response times
Wanting to see if Batman is real and if so, would he be for or against what you’re about to do
You have a new poison or weapon you want to try out
You got too pumped listening to heavy metal
Language differences
Road rage
Get out of a test or exam

There's probably loads of other reasons to murder that wouldn't be detrimental to society as a whole.

D.H.

Some Things to Remember for Next Election Year.

1. I don't give a flying fuck who you are voting for. In fact, unless you're my wife or brother, keep it to yourself. It's private. It's none of my fucking business and I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW who you're voting for.

2. If a current president is up for re-election, I don't give a flying fuck what you think about him. However, keep in mind that if you're the type of chump who fills cyberspace with negative publicity about the guy ("Obama maybe sold cocaine ohmygosh!"), you're routinely showing the world that you're somewhere between a sissybaby who helped elect a guy and now regrets it (and I don't give a shit if you voted for him or not...we're still ONE NATION, despite what your precious parties want you to feel; WE put the guy in office whether he got your vote or not) and some un-American asshole who refuses to acknowledge the Commander in Chief. Fuck off and suck it up. You're part of the team no matter how far above it you like to tell yourself you are.

3. If I even catch you THINKING about telling another person how to vote, I will hack your fucking arm off and set you up for an Obliteration Technique. I don't care if you come right out and say "Hey fucker, vote Dukakis," or if you're one of those passive aggressive pansy-types who will instead embark upon a campaign of constant trash talk about the other candidate. I am not kidding here. I have seriously deleted people out of my contacts over this kind of crap. I once changed my mobile number to make sure I'd effectively eliminated the person from my life who was trying to cast my vote as well as theirs. Remember - when someone does this, they're saying that they know what to do with your vote better than you do. There should be few things in life that offend or insult you more.

4. Political parties are for small-minded fools. Seriously. You have no idea how badly you're being snowed right now. The powers-that-be learned many many moons ago the power of a Good Bad Guy: Americans will eat that shit up like we just pulled it from a McDonald's drive thru window. Anymore there's basically one mishmashed bullshit party (still one too many if you ask me) but it's masquerading as two polar opposites in order to give you sheep a good bad guy to foam at the mouth over and distract yourselves with.

5. When 2016 rolls around, if possible, quit all forms of social media for the year. I am so not joking. I am so going to do this in 2016. Actually, wait - whatever happened to the notion that it's impolite to discuss politics or religion in public? I say whoever coined that concept was right on. I say we bring that back.

An aside - I am NOT VOTING this year. The reason I am not voting is simple: I would rather get stabbed than have to sit through Jury Duty again. Here is what Jury Duty consists of for me: endless hours in a courthouse surrounded by sick, sweaty assholes who all want to sit next to me and talk. Time stands still. Hunger pains creep in much earlier than usual but the vending machines are always out of order. I start craving cigarettes again for no reason.

Around the third or fourth time I shave for the day in the courthouse bathroom, as I'm panicking over my lack of provisions, my group will invariably be called. Want to know how that goes? I'll tell you: as soon as I open my mouth, I am booted the fuck out of the courtroom. You see, I have a unique blend of circumstances wherein my so-called criminal record in conjunction with the fact that half of my immediate family works for law enforcement makes me the Single Most Undesirable Jury Candidate of All Time.

[To all of you who are rolling your eyes behind your narrow-framed glasses and scratching your beards and drinking coffee at times of day other than the morning and rubbing your high foreheads - first off, shut up. Your argument is that my civic duty is to waste my whole day and to get kicked out of the courtroom without participating because that's what society needs from me at that point in time. I get it. My argument is this: you've given me a way out of a negative experience by allowing me to escape jury duty by not voting. You need to find a new way to force me into Jury Duty that is separate from voter registration. That is the first point I'm making. Second, get a new look, professor. Your look screams "Future Mugging Victim."]

Now - how does this relate to voting? Simple: I don't give a half-shit what you've been told about how potential jurors are selected; they'll tell you that you're registered when you get a driver's license, they'll tell you that you're registered when you have utility bills in your name. HORSE SHIT. I have had a driver's license for twenty years and I've had utility bills in my name for about eighteen years. I was never selected for jury duty until I registered to vote, and between that day and the point where I effectively un-registered myself, roughly three years later? I was selected FIVE FUCKING TIMES for that bullshit. Now that I'm happily unregistered? My life is blissfully devoid of those terrifying notices in my mailbox.

So...D.H., what's the point, exactly? The point is this: voting should be the last process on earth that has anything even remotely negative associated with it, let alone something that could be perceived as punitive (and trust me, if your Jury Duty Misadventures are like mine - you will, on some level, come to view the process as punitive). I challenge the American government to come up with a new way to register potential jurors that is completely separate from voter registration. Jury duty sucks balls and if you give me a way out of it, I am genetically predisposed to take it, even if is at the expense of my vote. Other things I would gladly sacrifice to get out of Jury Duty: any one of my cats. My transmission. The pond in our backyard I built. My music collection. The PIN number to my checking account (not the joint one, honey). My Stratocaster. (And yeah, the PIN to our joint checking account, too.)

You show me a president who fixes that shit and I'll show you a a president who will not only get my vote, he'll get me to vote to remove term limits too.

- D.H.

The SECOND Worst Band of All Time

So how badly do I hate this band? I think all you have to do is look at the time elapsed between my last post and this post. Why so long? Because I needed the time to develop and perfect a phrase to use to describe how badly I hate this band: I hate this band a massive shitting lot.

Even back when this band was considered to be edgy – as opposed to the corporate nostalgia act they’ve morphed into today – they were awful. But DH – how can they be truly awful? Musically, they’ve got skills. Their rhythm section is one of the better ones out there.

These are valid arguments. My only counter would be: Yeah, but have you listened to what occurs when Anthony Keidis opens his mouth? At no point during a RHCP song do I ever stop thinking: I would rather be inserting a gun barrel into my own mouth (ha ha Kurt jokes, still funny!) than being exposed to what’s coming out of his.

I realize he’s made attempts over the past few decades at singing and actually carrying a melody and what-have-you, and you gotta give the guy an A for at least making an effort, but come on. Let’s look at what he does the other 90% of the time when he’s not trying to sing. Insane freakish grunting? Check. Nonsense sounds? Check. Baby noises? Nailed it. Staccato-style Latin-flavored hip hop nonsense (he’s from Michigan, btw, from European and Lithuanian parents)? Awesome. Constant mispronunciation of basic words? WORK IT ANTHONY. Talk-rapping in his ghetto-speak like he’s trying to sell me weed? BOOM. Switching into Nasal Overdrive for a complete verse just to be an idiot? Knocked it out of the ballpark, weirdo!  

Someone needs to put a stop to this man. ASAFP.

Enough. Either you’re with me or you’re not. Hopefully you are. Let’s examine some of their more well-known pieces of shit that I STILL GET STUCK HEARING AT LEAST ONCE A F*CKING DAY.

1. GIVE IT AWAY GIVE IT AWAY GIVE IT AWAY NOW – Wonderful. A slick, hip, youthful ode to the many known pitfalls of keeping one’s virginity intact. When I have kids I’ll be sure to force this piece of shit down their throats daily. “Young blood is the lovin’ upriser”…Keidis, I know you’re a fucking junkie and everything, but I gotta tell you – even I have never been high enough to get it into my head that the world needs to hear you describe post-rupture hymen blood.

2. UNDER THE BRIDGE – if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard this song in my life, I’d kill myself, because no one wants to become independently wealthy by being Ear Raped daily. You are such a tool, Kiedis. Oh, PS, thanks for the slo-mo chest jiggling at the end of the video. Hey, my friend Omax will probably get mad if I write this and waste the chance to ask you something: do you actually pay Iggy Pop Image Royalties or anything like that?

3. SOUL TO SQUEEZE – I remember this Turd Sundae; I can’t recall if it was ever on an album of theirs as initially it was released as part of the soundtrack for the Coneheads film. Out of key singing, retarded lyrics, slightly-melancholy-but-not-enough-to-engage-anyone-who-isn’t-retard-high YEP! That’s Vintage Peppers for you. I always hate the way Keidis constantly teases us with lyrics that instill complete hope yet he never makes good on any of it in real life. “I might end up somewhere in Mexico…” We’re WAITING, ass. Now get under the bridge and stay there; your worthless life isn’t going to give itself away.

4. OTHER SIDE – "Pour my life into a paper cup/The ashtray's full and I'm spillin' my guts/She wants to know am I still a slut/I've got to take it on the otherside." I distinctly remember the first time I heard this line.  I was standing in the middle of a restaurant at lunchtime waiting for my order to be called.  This line plays.  I say "OH MY GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE GO FUCK YOURSELF." I hate this song.  Dani California is another one I should single out for being retarded, but instead I think I need to touch on:

5. CALIFORNICATION – Aww, how precious: a morality message from a guy who's spent most of his life whacked out beyond recognition on cocaine & smack.  Eat me.  PS - whoever came up with "Firstborn unicorn" deserves to be executed.  Whoever decided to rhyme it with "Hardcore soft porn" deserves to be dipped in A1 and fed to hungry dogs.

6. AROUND THE WORLD – This one is my personal favorite, and by "favorite," I mean "I hate it more than any of the others."  How many songs does this idiot need to use as vehicles to showcase the names of the many, many U.S. states he's familiar with?  What a gem.  I can't go on.

Inspired or not, I will quite literally do anything to make you think I'm quirky and interesting.

For these reasons as well as plenty of others that I’d type out here if it wasn’t so tedious and tiresome to think about the Chili Peppers, I am in support of sending the Hayabusa Death Squad after this band. What’s the Hayabusa Death Squad, you ask?? Oh, I’m so glad.

The Hayabusa Death Squad is an elite group of killers that I dreamt up back while I was writing the Coldplay section of my earlier post on Derivative Crap. Along the lines of Tarantino’s Fox Force Five, what separates them from other groups of elite killers is that – while each member of the squad has a specialty – all six squad members employ all six specialties simultaneously at the time of each assassination. Would you like to meet the Hayabusa Death Squad? I know you do.   Allow me to introduce the Hayabusa Death Squad team members:

Fist McGee – punching.
Special Death Move: The Sternum Cracker.
Basically just a balls-out fist to the chest hard enough to set your sternum and ribs all free-floating.

Palvo – guns.
Special Death Move: the AT&T, aka Reach Out & Touch Someone.
Basically he just snipers the shit out of you. One minute you’re sitting there eating Chik-Fil-A, the next minute, your head’s gone. JFK would be a good resource if you’re interested in asking someone how jarring it must be to go out like this.

Ryu – the katana.
Special Death Move: the Folgers’ Decap.
In this move, he stands a few feet in front of you and in one fluid motion, steps forward, draws his sword, cuts cleanly and completely through your neck, replaces his sword, and steps back to his original position, all so fast that the victim doesn’t see it.

Ex-Girlfriend – the knife.
Special Death Move: the Backstab.
Simply put, while the victim is focused on Ryu, X (short for “Ex-Girlfriend”) sneaks up and stabs the victim in the back, piercing the heart.

Dr. Napalm – fire.
Special Death Move: the 9/11.
Dr. Napalm deploys a modified Super Soaker which he fills with his own special mixture of Vaseline and gasoline. The trigger is depressed, unleashing a stream of proprietary napalm up to seventy feet away at roughly six gallons per minute (note the Soaker doesn’t hold that much; I’m just describing the flow rate of the device). Upon releasing the trigger, a small gas pilot light ignites the tail end of the stream. Instant immolation, which I just realized would be a cool title for a death metal song.

Murdoch – the falling car.
Special Death Move: the Fedex.
Basically Murdoch flies a cargo plane at roughly a thousand feet over the scene and, just before the other five members spring into action, he auto-pilots the plane directly over the victim and, upon reaching the victim, he pushes an automobile out.

So basically, you simultaneously get the following:

1. Your head separated from your body via a sword.
2. Your head blown open by a sniper bullet.
3. Your heart pierced by a knife.
4. Your sternum broken and ribcage destroyed.
5. You get lit on fire.
6. A car falls on you.

Pretty awesome, right? Anyways, whatever issue we were just discussing? My vote goes to sending the Hayabusa Death Squad to solve it for us.

The THIRD Worst Band of All Time

Two brothers.  Eight good friends.  Three ex-girlfriends.  The entire Steve's Pizza crew from 1995.  My entire graduating class of 1994.  My first boss.  My third boss.  My fourteen-thru-twenty-year-old self.  This is what I risk alienating by posting this.  But I can no longer remain silent: Nirvana, you fuckin lick it like you're afraid it's gonna melt.

Now before a bunch of you yahoos stuck in the 90s start posting your bullshit comments or sending me retarded emails accusing me of hating 90s bands, or grunge bands/Seattle bands - stop.  Just stop.  You couldn't be more wrong.  There are Seattle bands I still listen to today.  Further, I will reiterate an argument I've made since Kurt Cobain's head still consisted of a single piece: Nirvana is not a grunge band.  Absolutely NOT. 

Nirvana was a punk band that broke through at the same time grunge bands were breaking through.  To further complicate matters, they broke through at the absolute epicenter of Grunge Kingdom (Seattle).  Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam?  Five-star grunge acts, no doubt about it.  But Nirvana was something different.

Both the punk and the grunge movements came about at times when the pendulum that is the public tastes begin to change direction; think of it as a form of musical revolution.  We saw this in the 1970s and we saw it again in the early 90s: acts like Soundgarden were every bit a reaction against the 80s hair bands as the Ramones were a reaction against leftover hippies, prog rock, and disco.  Both types of music were reactions, in that sense, and thus similar.

But the music itself is dramatically different, and here's how I would explain it if I had to: grunge music in its purest form completely eschews pop sensibilities, whereas punk music maintains pop sensibilities at all costs.  In other words, nothing is off the table where grunge music is concerned: odd time signatures, chord progressions that don't make sense, off-putting harmonies, uncomfortable tempos, awkward-sounding key changes, and unusual song structures are the tip of the iceberg.  Are you noticing that grunge music has, at least on paper, the capacity to be very complicated?  Good.

Punk music, on the other hand, is dramatically different.  To say punk music is pop music played on loud, heavy guitars with a screaming vocalist would be an oversimplification, yes, but certainly not much of one. Traditional Western melodies are rigidly observed.  Traditional chord progressions - albeit short ones - observed.  Traditional song structure - observed.  It's meant to be loud, fast, and full of energy - but also to observe traditional rules of pop music.

Now, based on this knowledge I just dropped on yo' ass, how would you categorize, say, Soundgarden?  Grunge!  Good.  Now - Alice in Chains?  Grunge!  That's good.  Now - Nirvana?

That's right.  Nirvana is a punk band, through and through.  Sorry for the departure, but it's important to get that out of the way.  Anyone who calls Nirvana a grunge band doesn't know what the F they're talking about.

Now, why does this matter?  Because Nirvana was not a good grunge band, and - as it turns out - they were a pretty shitty punk band as well.  What's that?  Oh, I'm so glad you asked.

What are the elements we love in our punk acts? Recklessness. Attitude. Disregard for human safety. Lack of interest. Staying hidden. Does any of the sound like Nirvana to you?  No.  (Well, up until the point where what's-his-balls decided to see if he could fit his big toe into a trigger guard, anyway.)  Nirvana may have attempted to appear indifferent but to anyone alive and observing it all unfold...they were media whores.  Besides, Cobain named his baby Francis Bean.  You wanna know what Sid Vicious would have named his kid?  Middle Finger Vicious.  You know what I think of that?  So awesome I could puke, that's what.

How unfortunate for Great Britain - all they got was Sid & Nancy.

This half-talented bastard blew up so big, so fast, and then selfishly blew his worthless head off that he was propelled to sheer and utter stardom the likes of which the world has rarely seen; we certainly haven't seen it since.  We've seen our share of dead celebrities, sure, but nothing like Kurt.  This begs the question: why? 

Did anyone declare a national disaster when the Ramones started dying off? Did half the world stay grief-stricken for weeks when Joe Strummer or Sid Vicous died? Nope. So why did we care so much when Kurt rode forever out of town on the Double-Barrel Express? Simple - he forced us to care. He forced us to care and then ditched out on us. He showed up wearing ballroom gowns and quirky sunglasses and alternashirts and shoved his face in front of the camera at every given chance because he wanted us to love him. He's basically Barney from How I Met Your Mother.  Only instead of slipping out of the apartment while you're showering, he wrapped his lips around the barrel of a gun and turned his skull into a pretty clever impression of Humpty Dumpty.  So the Barney analogy completely works.

Here's a way you can convince yourself that I'm right - ask yourself this: was it Kurt we fell in love with, or was it his music? Wait - back up.  Could we even understand his lyrics, let alone any message that might have been in there? Think about POLLY. Is there ANY musical value there whatsoever?  What about IN BLOOM?  I was bored before that song even ended...the first time I heard it.  I would maintain that the world loved Kurt, and the music was secondary. And we loved him because he wanted us to.

Thanks asshole - hey I think I hear the sound of a gun barrel that needs tasting.

All this pales in comparison to my biggest complaint about this band of dirtbags: Nirvana did nearly-irreparable harm to the world of music, namely: musicianship.  Sure, some listeners simply prefer the simpler songs: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, hold the guitar solo please! ...maybe a bridge and an end or final chorus.  However, Kurt Cobain is singlehandedly responsible for the guitar solo - as we had come to know it - being completely outlawed.

Sure, he did his little doodlings once in a great while where he'd play the same two completely distorted notes over and over, or maybe he'd play the melody that he'd just finished singing when verse two ended, but I prefer to think of them as "sonic breaks" instead of guitar solos. 

And what happened?  What happened when he took a lead money shot and checked out forever?  As established, he was propelled to near-Elvis status.  This is a guy who couldn't play guitar if you held a gun to his head (ha ha, get it?  Kurt + gun jokes still aren't getting old, I'm kinda surprised, it being this late in the post) being hailed as a great musician upon his death.  As such, every single non-made player in the world had to doubt his entire arsenal of chops at this point.  Even worse, all those chumps who lacked the discipline to develop the chops required to become a professional musician were suddenly given not only a template for a writing style but also some coattails to ride and the confidence they'd need to pull it off! 

Subsequently, our local music stores were suddenly filled with idiots chugging away on drop-D guitars rather than a bunch of idiots trying to re-create "Spanish Fly" (and in most cases failing, but still).  I know guys - GOOD players - who were suddenly afraid to play any lead work!  All because one of one idiot!  This leads to some speculation: many of those players who truly loved the instrument for what it was were put into the position where they felt they needed to dumb down their playing.

To this day, the world of guitar playing has yet to fully recover from the damage done by Cobain. Sure, guitar solos are being revived, slowly but surely, but they're still not the same.  Are you the kind of discriminating idiot who requires supporting evidence for every point I make?  If so (if so, you probably shouldn't be reading my blog, it'll give you heartburn...go somewhere where the research comes from somewhere other than their own memory banks), luckily, I have an example for you.  Here we are, the Year of Our Lord 2012, about twenty years after the death of this yo-yo.  Go check out the "guitar solo" on "Slo-Mo-Tion" off the new Manson album (Born Villian).  I even wrote down what time it starts, in case you're like me and you hate that song: three minutes, fifteen seconds.  You're welcome.

Have we had any mainstream guitar gods borne unto us lately?  Any guys like Slash or Mick Mars who become household names due solely to their guitar work?  No?  That's too bad.  Well, you can thank this idiot for that.

I could further speculate on how the near-extinction of guitar leads in music left your typical rock-n-roll song structure with a gaping hole (for example - like the hole in Kurt's head) - a hole which the idiots that came in directly after Cobain tried to fill...with hip hop (Korn, Limp Bizkit, Papa Roach, Linkin Park), but nah.  I'm sure you guys made that connection already yourselves.

I'm outta here.  Hope you liked it, or more accurately - I honestly don't give a shit.  I had a rotten time writing it and thinking about all this bullshit.

Piss off forever,

D. Hayabusa

 

Meet the Homos

I'm pleased to announce that - since I was never contacted by a representative from the gay community at all in spite of my request from March of this year - I'm going to consider the word "homo" commandeered for safe, appropriate usage between me and my cats. 

With that in mind - I'd like to introduce the world to My Furry Homos.

Squirrel

aka "Squirellybob"

aka "Squirrel E. Bob"

aka "Bob"

aka "Bobert"

aka "Bobert Bobbington"

aka "Bobcat"

aka "Batman"

aka "Batcat"

aka "Weirdly McChat"

aka "Weirdo Machine"

aka "Darren Dinglethorpe"

This cat is - for lack of a better expression - a Titan of Industry (the industry I'm referring to is "being a cat"). When we first met, he was a young alley cat who routinely fought groups of raccoons and went from house to house saying what's up to people and whatnot. Now he's older, settled down, and much more refined; now he prefers to think of himself as a Cat Food Mogul rather than an alleycat beggar (though he'd certainly never turn his Cat Nose up at a treat from my garbage can...or your garbage can).

True story: at one point during his days as an alley cat, back when he would go from house to house, he disappeared. He quit coming around. After a day I started getting these visions of him in jail. Eventually I started calling our local animal control facilities. Sure enough: his "owner" (some horrible pig of a woman named Jillian Fitz-something) had gotten tired of caring for him and took him to the pound and asked them to put him down. Whore! Anyways, I adopted him and sprung him from the Cat Penitentiary. Unfortunately, they wouldn't release him without neutering him...which meant that my plan to use him to father an army of black and white cats would have to be revised.

Pros: One of two cats capable of displaying even an ounce of intelligence over instinct.

Cons: Excessively hairy. Constantly shedding. Won't shut the fuck up if you have food...or at any other time. Thinks he's too good for the litterbox and sometimes takes a dump just outside the box. Will sneak outside in a heartbeat. Won't stay off the goddamn kitchen counters even under threat of torture. Prefers toilet water over his water bowl. Born with a rare birth defect that's caused 90% of his teeth to come out. Rips furniture, blankets, and clothing to shreds. Terrible breath.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring resembles Batman's mask after the Bane fight.

We made Weez wear his Bane mask, put on the Dark Knight Rises trailer, and tried to get them to fight.  Didn't work out.

Malvo

aka "Malvo the Wonder Kitty"

aka "Malverz"

aka "Vo"

aka "Dr. Vo"

aka "Malvobuns"

aka "Starfish Twinkletoes"

aka "John Malvo"

aka "Derek Dongenheimer"

This is the kind of cat that can make an instant dog lover out of a person. I picked him up so Squirrel would have a friend to play with during the day...ot at least that's what I tell people if they inquire as to whether or not I'm raising an army. I remember it well: the girl from the rescue organization told me she'd stop by my place around dinnertime, so I spent the whole day telling Squirrel about his big, bad brother who just got paroled...like trying to scare him (remember this is back when I thought he listened to me). When Little Malvo finally arrived, he was no bigger than a hamster. I held him out in the palm of my hand to Squirrel and said "Hey...meet your new little brother, Squi-" ...before I knew it, Squirrel had lifted his paw up and smacked Malvo out of my hand. Their relationship hasn't changed at all.

You could state the Malvo is pure instinct over intelligence, but after six years or so I would argue that comment implies there IS some sort of intelligence, and is thus incorrect. He's grown into a sweet cat, sure, but trust me: there is no one home upstairs if you get my drift. This cat is all about eating, chasing, and attacking. That's it. Well, that and damaging my property.

One good thing about Malvo - when I come across evidence that one of these Furry Idiots has been tightroping across the top of our wall-mounted television, I don't exactly have to set up a Nannycam to find out which one's been doing it.

Pros: Sheds less certain other Fur Idiots and has the most normal toilet habits. Takes the creepiest pictures.

Cons: Howls like a demon monkey at night. Smelliest bowel movements. Falls a lot. Constantly starts fights with his Fur Siblings. Scared of everything. Will often destroy the entire living room chasing a bug or shadow.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring (if the Hitler moustache isn't a dead giveaway, he's the only cat sporting a goatee).

Inspector Tequila

 aka "Inspector T"

aka "Weasel"

aka "Weez"

aka "Weezer"

aka "Weazy-peazy"

aka "Weaselman"

aka "Denny Dickmouth"

Oh boy. Anybody wondering what could have possessed me at this point to want to adopt a THIRD furry idiot gets a ninja high five: you're absolutely correct to be critical, it was the shittiest decision I've ever made...and I once leased a car. This furry nightmare began his life in the custody of my veteranarian-esque cousin, Marydroid. Weighing in at just under twelve pounds, he's the runtiest cat I own, but an interesting factoid is that he's not actually the runt of his own litter. That distinction went to his brother, who was born so retarded they actually named him Forrest and ultimately had to put him down three weeks later. Basic Life would have defeated him.

I named him Inspector Tequila but, after a few weeks, I'd begun calling him Weasel pretty much exclusively. That's how much of a fuckin weasel this cat is: I have an opportunity to call him by the most badass name there is (thereby increasing my own badass stock a little every time the words came out of my mouth) and instead...well, let me put it to you this way: I could tiptoe up behind him right now and say INSPECTOR TEQUILA and he'd have no fuckin clue what I was saying. But WEASEL? Oh, he'd turn right around.

Behaviorally, he's probably the worst cat we have. Unfortunately, he's also the cuddliest, and he's learned the advantages of keeping Amydroid on his side. So, sure enough, every time I get pissed enough to start eyeing my pond and wondering how one goes about tying a rock around a cat's neck such that he couldn't wriggle free, this furry anus will be rubbing on Amydroid's leg until I hear the Phrase of Defeat: "Well...I guess we didn't really NEED that (broken object)." This cat is going to outlive them all...and probably me as well.

See that nice, peaceful lamp in the background of this nice, peaceful picture?

BOOM!  Y'all humans just got CATIFIED!

Pros: Not completely retarded like Malvo. Rarely sheds any fur at all.

Cons: Pure engine of dark destruction as fueled by Lucifer himself. No concept of boundaries or order. Hands-down worst, most goddamn fucking annoying toilet habits you can imagine (just broke a $200 automatic litterbox, thanks Weez!). Can somehow sharpen his claws far beyond the normal talons the rest of them develop and into something so deadly I'm not convinced I don't legally need to register them with authorities. Won't stay off the kitchen counters.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring (L-shaped white spot across face).

Bizkit

 aka "Bizzy"

aka "Bizzy B"

aka "Bizzy Buns"

aka "the Biz"

aka "Captain"

aka "Miss Thang"

aka "Little Mama"

aka "Furtorious B.I.Z."

Finally we arrive at the gorgeous Bizzy B. Biz is far older than the rest of our army and the reasoning is simple: Amydroid made the worst choice of her life (to adopt a cat) years & years before I made the worst choice of my own. The Biz is easily the most well-behaved cat in the Fur Arsenal, though to be fair, I attribute this to the lower energy levels that come around when a person (or the equivalent) hits ninety (or the equivalent). That certainly isn't intended to imply she's some sort of angel, because she isn't - none of them are. But, she's very intelligent, she can be cuddly, and when it comes to destroying big-ticket items within my household, she's got a record that was completely spotless up until about six weeks ago when she participated in the complete destruction of the lamp that Amydroid grew up with. Furry whore!

Bizkit has a great sense of boundaries, and I know if she ever escaped from the Hayabusa Stronghold, she wouldn't wander far (whereas the others would end up in Canada). She's also the most adept at not getting caught sneaking into and out of areas in the house that are verboten to the furry.

Pros: Makes my wife happy.  Displays the most intelligence over instinct.  A sweet girl who is generally well-behaved...for the most part.  As far as I know.

Cons: Constantly leaking shit out of her left eye.  Exceptionally sneaky.  Thinks she's a fuckin martyr.  Fakes injuries.  Can't stop pacing prior to feeding time, to the point where the other cats attack her.  Constantly licks your hands and - if you have a fingernail at all - will use available fingernails to floss her teeth or clean her gumline.  Constantly vomits all over everything (and when she does?  Eighteen inch tiles all over our place and she ALWAYS manages to hit a fuckin grout line).  Too daintly to set foot in the litterbox (she does a balancing act on the rim that makes it sound like fuckin boulders are falling into the litter). 

Post a pic of a female cat taking a dump - CHECK!  One more item ticked off the Bucket List.

How to tell her apart from the others: Coloring; she's the only one who never resembles an anorexic panda bear.
 ___

Hope you've enjoyed today's journey through the menagerie that is our home.  Always remember - one cat is enough.

D.H.

Album Review (Five Words or Less) - BORN VILLAIN

Verdict: ONE-DIMENSIONAL

There was a time when this idiot was able to – somehow – transcend time and space and produce music with all the meaning and depth of vintage Pink Floyd. Somehow. Again, I don’t understand it in the least, but I still remember the first time I ever heard “The Speed of Pain” (Mechanical Animals); I think I listened to it twenty times that same night. I remember when the next album dropped (Holy Wood), I remember thinking: “There is no way this dude is going to top Mechanical Animals.” Guess what! I was wrong. Nineteen of some of the most rocking, energetic, well-produced tracks I’d heard up until then. Plus – he tapped into that same “Speed of Pain” vibe with “In the Shadow of the Valley of Death!” I remember watching many sunrises from the roof of my apartment listening to the end of that song: “Death here is policeman/death it is the priest/death it is the stereo/death it is the TV…” *chills*

If I were reviewing Holy Wood right now, the summary would be: “EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS.”

Unfortunately for everyone, I’m not: I’m reviewing Born Villain.

I can’t really draw you a line between the two albums because I have no idea how many Manson albums connect the two. You see, as much as I dug the guy at one time, we did eventually encounter some irreconcilable differences – namely, Golden Age of Grotesque, the follow-up album to Holy Wood. Good God in heaven, did Golden Age stink on ice or what? You know how you do that thing when you buy an album that should rule but you immediately recognize that it sucks donkey but you just refuse to believe it? You’re like “the problem must be ME…maybe if I keep listening to it. Maybe if I try it again tomorrow.” Nope. Just like Apollo Creed said to Rocky – there is no tomorrow. That album sucked so bad I quit listening to the guy or paying attention in general.

I don’t know what possessed me to buy Born Villain. Maybe I was trying to recapture my youth. Maybe I was simply curious. Maybe it was on sale for $5 in the Amazon MP3 store. In any event, for better or worse, I bought it.

First off – there is zero depth here. Remember when Metallica squatted over the Collective Ears of the World and squeezed out the black album when we were all expecting something dynamic and exciting, as we’d become accustomed to from them? Kind of the same thing here. These aging Gothsters (Manson, Reznor) have always been exceptionally talented at pushing the musical envelope from several perspectives; one of my favorite aspects about their music was their skill in manipulating the sounds themselves: working with layers, developing new sounds, etc.

You don’t get a lot of that here. For the majority of the album, you get a few varied drum sounds (heavy, electronic), a fairly heavy bass sound, and a heavy guitar. That’s it.

Absent also is Manson’s typical respect for the art of crafting lyrics. In the past, this guy could fill entire songs with dramatic, interesting, engaging imagery; he could write a song with four verses and never repeat himself if he chose. Not so much anymore. Here verses are crafted with a single line repeated ad nauseum (“I wanna have your ache/and beat ya too,” – “Pistolwhipped,” or “You don’t even wanna know what I’m going to do to you,” – “No Reflection”). Methinks Manson’s muse has been asleep on the job.

Another thing I miss? Manson not being intentionally stupid. Seriously, this is something that calls back to the aforementioned Grotesque turd salad; the whole “I am an artist” thing he started fisting down our ears back then. It’s one thing to try and challenge your listener; quite another to simply show up and do spoken word like how I imagine the gimp from Pulp Fiction or Machine from 8mm would sound. Check out “The Gardener” or the intro to “Overneath the Path of Misery.” Or, better still, don’t.

Ninja's Note: To all Aging Gothsters – no one likes it when you opt to talk over a track rather than sing. I know you’re getting older now and it’s nice to produce a song or two that will – if strategically positioned in your set list – will give your tired, old, worn-out vocal cords a break. But trying to talk over music? Dumb. We’d prefer instrumentals.

There are some interesting moments here. “Hey, Cruel World” is a passable song. “No Reflection” stands out as the album’s best track. “Born Villain” is interesting in a good way. I don’t immediately forward through the “You’re So Vain” cover, though it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the tracks or the overall vibe of the album. All in all, however, one would have to categorize this album as under-inspired at best. 

KISS BALLS, Manson.  You're not pushing yourself.  You know what happens then?  I'll let me readers fill in the blanks.  (...but it ain't good.)

The Worst Band of All Time - Honorable Mention (pt III)

First off – speaking from a very personal point of view – I hate this band. I hate this band more than any other band walking the earth right now, and I’ve literally hated them from the first note I heard. Maybe even before that. I hate them the way Christians hate the devil.  I hate them the way Jews probably hate Hitler.  I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night to my wife shaking my sweaty, rigid body: “Wake up, wake up! You’re having a bad dream!” “I am?” “Yeah, you were screaming ‘F*CK YOU, COLDPLAY’ again!!”

You know this already. Chances are, if you’ve been here before and you’re not blind, you’re aware that I have a massive problem with this band. In fact, the astute reader is probably already confused: “But D.H.,” he or she is thinking, “…you hate Coldplay. Shouldn’t they be your Number One Worst Band of All Time? Number Two if not? I can’t believe they’re only an honorable mention…if there’s someone else out there that you hate more than Coldplay, it’s surprising, because you rip on Coldplay every chance you get. No one else gets that kind of treatment.”

It’s true. I do. I have hated them since time immemorial. Actually, wait – not true. I remember the exact moment when I started hating them. Let’s take a little trip back in time: a twenty-something DroidHayabusa flew overseas to visit with his then-girlfriend (some b*tch who had to go to college in a foreign country because none of the colleges in America were pretentious enough for her). As soon as the plane landed, he could see it in her face: he had been duped. He had been tricked. He was going to get dumped on this trip. Thousands of airfare dollars down the f*cking toilet. Want to know one of the first things out of her mouth when I got off the plane? “Oh…you’ve never heard of Coldplay?? Oh, wow, well by the time you go back home, you’ll know all about Coldplay.” The b*tch did not lie. In addition to getting dumped in the most spectacular, expensive manner during a trip that I thought was going to be two weeks in paradise… the soundtrack to My Two Weeks in Hades was provided by Coldplay. So can you begin to imagine the depths of my hatred for Coldplay?

But! But you know that old adage: no such thing as bad publicity? I don’t want to accidentally do these chumps a favor by naming them the worst band of all time, because I’d be in effect a) mentioning their name in a public forum, and then b) expressing that they’re the best at something (even if that “something” is “being the worst”). So, I’m going to file them under “honorable mention.” This way, I get to express all my pent-up rage and fury towards them, maybe give them all something to think about while they’re holding the shotgun up to their faces (a ritual which I would perform daily if I had to get up in front of tens of thousands of people several times a week and perform “YELLOW”), and all the while not contributing to suggesting these idiots are the “best” at anything. As far as limiting accidental publicity towards this idiot band, that’s going to be the best I can do.

As I was saying: this band is awful, but they take awful to a whole new level. Most bands suck just because they’re catalog is filler-heavy or just plain shitty. These guys, however, take sucking to a whole new level by incorporating an element which has no place in art: calculation. Art should come from emotion, from guts and heart; in this way, it is almost forgivable to be a young band who allows a new breakout band or artist to influence you more than they maybe should. It’s the excitement of the thing; you can if nothing else observe that the young band has their hearts in the right place. No one is interested in a person who approaches music in the calm, calculated manner of a financial planner.

These clowns, however, did something akin to Dr. Lecter’s attack on the nurse where his pulse never breached 85 (by which I mean it was calculated and executed with such a cool hand I’m surprised Coldplay members aren’t at least studied sometimes by the men in white coats): they set out to nearly replicate U2…an old band. A band that, at this point, is still one of the biggest bands in the world, but is far past their prime, let alone breakout phase. A band that’s been around long enough to where you can poach their sound and a good portion of their share of the market and – as we’ve observed (in horror, if you’re the kind of person who pays attention) – it worked. No one called them on it. Much like the parasitic Japanese dodder, Coldplay attached themselves to U2’s foundation and – once they were capable of sustaining themselves – fired their tendrils off all over the globe. Now every man, woman, and child on Earth is under the stranglehold of this horrible act, having the life sucked out of them a little bit at a time.

Even I admit: I might be reaching here.  Who gives a shit, though?  Fuck you, Coldplay.

We allowed this to happen, fellow humanoids. We just sat back and collectively said: “No, it’s OK to not be yourself while creating art. We will tolerate it.” Good job, teammates. So what do you think will happen next time a group of soulless sociopaths get together and decide to pull a similar stunt? As I’ve stated before: we’ll be screwed, because there will be no reason to not throw their hats into the ring and become a Red Hot Chili Peppers knock-off act, or a Pearl Jam clone, a faux-Metallica, or a Bon Jovi replica. Why not? With Coldplay, we established a track record of rewarding that kind of theft.

If I had to come up with something positive to say about Coldplay – and you should know that in order to do this, I had to imagine myself strapped down to the chair from Hostel and listening to the sound of pliers clicking in the background – it would be this: at least they didn’t suck as bad when they started out as they do now. At least there’s something of an edge to their earlier work. I can imagine that there is some sort of artistic merit to that “When I Ruled the World” hogwash, particularly when held up next to “Charlie Brown” or “Paradise” for comparison. WTF happened??? Did they all naturally manage to become even more boring and harmless all at the same time? Or did they actually discuss and agree to it, like at a band meeting or something?

“Guys, guys, guys…we need to do a serious self-overhaul. Like yesterday.”

“What’s wrong, Chris??”

“In ‘When I Ruled the World,’ we use the word ‘missionaries.’”

“So what’s wrong with that, Chris??”

“Gwenyth tells me that ‘missionary’ also means…well, she started laughing while she was describing it so I don’t really know, but it was definitely something to do with…having sex.’”

“OH MY GOD! Our careers could be over! I can’t believe we’re still standing!! Let’s hire someone to write an algorithm; we’ll call it the ‘Naughty Filter,’ we’ll play all of our recordings through it prior to their release just it to make sure nothing like this ever happens again…”

“While we’re at it, I noticed myself tapping my foot to that same song not long ago. Can we maybe scale back a little on the energy side of things as well? Face facts: we’re not some metal outfit, guys.  We're no Don Henley.”

“Agreed!”

Ninja's Note: Here's a Fun Fact for you, avid reader.  Professional Bono impersonator Chris Martin is married to Gwenyth Paltrow. They have two kids, and without even having to do any research I can assure you their kids are named "Pretentious and Obnoxious Child Name #1" and "Pretentious and Obnoxious Child Name #2."

Now - it pains me (in the same way an orgasm pains me) to make anyone feel singled out...yet I feel I would be remiss if I missed this chance to point a finger squarely at their vocalist, Mr. Chris Martin.  But after all...he deserves a little more scrutiny than the rest of the band, doesn't he?  I don't believe he insists on being known as the primary musical force behind the band, but surely he is: how else could he justify taking a double share of the profits?  Oh, you weren't aware of that?  Yeah, all non-Chris Martin members of Coldplay get 20%.  Mr. Martin gets 40%.  So I think a little singling out is warranted.  Or, as I like to say: "Time to earn some of that money, you chump."

I'd be a giggly motherfucker too if I'd made millions of dollars in spite of the fact that I had all the personality and charisma of an Elvis impersonator.

Look.  Mr. Martin - could you just drop the Bono act?  It's seriously embarassing.  Sometimes when you're on the radio, I can't tell if it's Coldplay or U2.  You're that good at mimicking Bono's voice.  At this point, I don't believe your years spent studying and practicing Bono were necessary.  You could probably have attained the dizzying (and completely unwarranted) heights of fame to which you are accustomed singing in your own voice.  Best of all - had you done that, you'd have people impersonating YOU today.  Wouldn't that be more satisfying than anything money could buy?  Oh, also you'd have your personal integrity.  Sure, the band would still be an obvious ploy to cut into U2's market, but at least all the fingers would be pointed at the whole band.  You wouldn't have any additional onus aimed squarely at you.

I'm going to sign off now.  That's it for me.  I'd like to leave you with a little snippet I pulled from Wikipedia just now:

“The recording sessions for The Blue Room were tumultuous. Champion was briefly fired from the band, but Martin later pleaded with him to return after kicking him out, and because of his guilt, went on a drinking binge. Eventually, the band worked out their differences and put in place a new set of rules to keep the group intact. Inspired by bands like U2 and R.E.M., Coldplay decided that they would operate as a democracy...additionally, the band determined they would fire anyone who used hard drugs.”

I'm sorry...aren't rock stars supposed to drink for FUN?  This idiot drank out of guilt???  Are you fucking kidding me?  Rock stars are supposed to fight and fire one another!  Also...ROCK STARS DON'T HAVE GUILT.  Everyone knows that!  Also - rock stars are supposed to take hard drugs.  Keeps us interested and engaged.  God dammit it's like these guys are TRYING to lower our global expectations of what we want from our music as well as the artists themselves.

I can no longer handle it.  Remember, all: Every time Chris Martin makes an ATM withdrawal, a genuine artist blows his or her brains out.

With that, I will leave you with the words of the immortal Dr. Crane: "Goodnight, Seattle."

- D.H.

PS Oh yeah, and the words of me, "FUCK YOU, COLDPLAY.  Kiss my nut sack, Chris Martin."