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."

Android Versus iPhone: Final Verdict

In a perfect world, I'd be able to say without hesitation: Android versus iPhone? Nobody cares.

I was trying to manually lower my IQ the other day by hanging out at the Android forums yet again and – yet AGAIN – was reading what I thought would be a harmless news link someone had posted. While it’s true the link and subsequent article were harmless – there was a COMMENTS section.

Ninja's Note: a little something about me you might not know - I wish I were capable of skipping over the comments section.  I cannot.  Doesn't matter what site you're talking about; like a moth to the flame, I will read the comments section.  It's beyond guilty pleasure...shit, most of the news articles I read are the guilty pleasure.  Reading the comments is like watching a train jump a track in slow motion: as good as sex in a way, but far more risky and damaging.  

Anyways – as I could have predicted and supported with a [winning] wager of my entire next paycheck – the comments d-evolved into an argument: iPhone versus Android.

People, people, people: this is one of those areas where a little bit of introspection and self-analysis would serve you well. Does it really matter if someone prefers a phone with different hardware than yours, or a different operating system?? Always remember one thing: the more choices that the cosmos makes available to you, the better. It is always this way. If the iPhone ceased to exist tomorrow, who would be the ones losing out? Answer: every single god damn humanoid on Planet Earth, because we will have lost a choice. Yet many of you (and I’m sorry to say it’s the Android folks – rather than the iPhone folks – who are primarily guilty here [hence the fact that the rest of this post - though both parties need to grow up - will be written as though I'm speaking to the Android users exclusively]) are simply not equipped to handle the fact that the iPhone is permitted to exist on this plane of reality.

I really don't understand.  I've never owned an iPhone; I've had maybe half a dozen different Android phones, but never an iPhone.  Does this mean I hate Apple?  F no.  If you gave me an iPhone I'd probably tinker with it for a while and eventually have a good time using the thing.  It's just a device; it's not intended to symbolize good or evil.  It's not meant to get people to draw battle lines.

Now.  To those of you that quickly and willfully lash out at folks that speak favorably about devices other than the one you selected: let me go out on a limb here and analyze your problem for you: you are horrifically insecure. That’s all it is. What causes your insecurity? How the F would I know? ANALYZE YOURSELF A LITTLE BIT, it will be the best thing you ever did. Here, I’ll give it a crack:

1. YOU'RE A SHEEP: You have - on some level - bought into the Apple branding and propaganda and you believe the iPhone is the sleeker, sexier, hipper choice…or you fear that’s how others will perceive it. Hence the massive chip on your shoulder. OK, so – if that’s what you believe…then why’d you go Android? Examine that for a minute. If you couldn’t afford an iPhone and had to go with a cheapie Android device…so what? How’s that the pro-iPhone guy’s fault? Or…is there something else preventing you from going iPhone? Some ill-founded beef with Apple? Someone you know in your personal life that you don’t particularly like use an iPhone? Guess what, genius: NONE of these have to do with which device is the better choice for YOU. You have no one to blame for your bitterness than yourself. Suck it.

2. YOU'RE GUILTY: You got too excited while shopping for your smartphone and worry you may have pulled the trigger too quickly, without fully researching your needs and your options. We should know by now that a large downside but also a massive upside to the human condition is emotional response. Hence the joy and the excitement that kicks in when you’re about to explore something new, or travel, or for many people, selecting a new smartphone. That joy comes few and far between for most of us; we should take it where we can get it. If you’re just feeling guilty that you allowed yourself to pull the trigger on a relatively large purchase while in a state where excitement had completely eclipsed your ability to reason and deploy critical thinking? Get over it and quit worrying that the iPhone crowd is some cool, calculating group of folks that would probably kick your ass up and down the block in a poker game. They’re not. Many of them feel the same insecurity you’re now feeling. Here’s some even better news: even if I’m dead wrong, it’s just a phone, retard. It’s not like we’re talking a 30-year mortgage here.

3. YOU'RE PARANOID: You cannot be confident in your own decision without some nagging fear that the iPhone crowd possesses or knows something that you do not. Here’s a crazy thought – did you even look at the iPhones when you were shopping for your Android device? I’m betting those of you that fall into this category did NOT. Guys – it’s all the same shit. They make calls. They hold phone numbers. They run apps. They hold music and videos. They have screens. They’ll get you online. LET IT GO.

4. YOU'RE TOO PROUD: You actually are one of the few Android users who do not like your phone but you are incapable of admitting you were wrong, if only to yourself. Well, shit head, I got news for you – if you can’t admit to yourself that you are not happy with your phone, then I’m willing to bet that said phone is the least of your problems. And just so you know, shotguns come with trigger guards wide enough to fit your big toe in there for a reason.

I am making my own head hurt, so I am going to wrap it up.  I am so tired of these clowns that leap all over someone else's shit for preferring something else (gasp).  You see it everywhere; right-wing vs left-wing, Mac vs PC, Ford versus Chevy, PS3 versus X360 versus Nintendo.  Go fuck yourselves.  Everyone knows you're a complete fuckin baby if you can't listen to someone state the fact that they prefer something you DON'T have over the actual item you selected.  You have your reasons, he has his reasons, now everyone get bent.

I am really trying to help you knuckleheads here – knock it off. You are fine, and your phone is fine.   And if you know your phone is NOT fine, then go get a new one.  You don’t need to rip someone’s head off for mentioning the word “iPhone” in a comment under an article that’s primarily aimed at the Android users, and vice-versa. If you enjoy your phone, then guess what? Nothing else should matter. Quit stressing out so badly about the other guys, OK? Worry about yourself and whether or not you’re genuinely happy in life (SPOILER ALERT: if you are angrily trying to convince someone on an Internet message board, chat room, or comments area that your phone is better than theirs? You are NOT HAPPY and you have much work to do before you die and completely miss out on the point of your own existence.)

D.H.