Gorgeous Man Saves Small Town From Rampaging Monster

This morning, residents of Horseheads, New York awoke from a collective nightmare.

Since late May, the small town has been terrorized by a large, unidentified creature, one that has claimed the lives of over a hundred thousand men, women and children…and, in what will forever be remembered as “Horseheads’ 9/11,” caused minor structural damage to the village post office.

Yet, at approximately 1:33 AM Eastern Standard Time, shortly after civil defense sirens cut through the night to warn of another attack (the first since October 8th’s mid-evening rampage that devastated the red light district of Hanover Square)—reports were flooding in that the beast was in captivity. By the time the National Guard arrived, both the menace and its captor were gone.


Eyewitnesses were shaken; unable to identify the man who undoubtedly saved them. “He was a strong man with chiseled abs and a well-oiled chest,” said Linda Bradstaff of East Franklin St. “I wanted to personally thank him, but he was gone before I was able to fully expose my vagina.”

Of the beast, one witness claimed it was an “enormous wolf, the size of full grown horse; with the head of a horse and a horse’s body and horse hooves…almost like some sort of large, horse-shaped wolf.”

The only known photograph (pictured above), taken by area carpet salesman and contemporary ballet instructor, Andrew Marshall, depicts the two in the heat of battle, fully engaged in a violent life-or-death struggle. Though a spectacular raw portrait of selfless, unparalleled heroism…it offers few clues to officials desparate for answers.

“We’d like to know more about the man who saved our town, our families, our friends and neighbors,” said police chief, Barry Stanford. “However, we need to know if he’ll be back to protect us, should this monstrous wolf with horse features ever return…or, god forbid, if there are more of them out there.”

Stanford continued, “I know the whole town would love the opportunity to thank him…I don’t think a parade is out of the question. We’d pull out the retired fire engines, get the high school marching band to do their thing, have some floats made in his honor…and, of course, every man, woman and child would be there proudly exposing their genitals.”

I attended my first Major League Baseball game last night. Yankees vs Red Sox. I had too much to drink. Barely remember a thing. I woke up with guacamole all over my pants and only three sloppily captured photos on my phone. I studied them intensely, trying with all my might to piece together even a crude memory of the evening.

I couldn’t come up with much, but I’ve concluded that: I was there. I was there. (I need to repeat that until it seems plausible). I was there.

Yes, I was there and, somewhere in my subconscious, under a dense fog of vodka-infused delusion, there’s practical data from the game recorded and properly cataloged. My Aussie mates might’ve carried me to my seat, or propped me up against an aisle railing, or carefully draped my limp body over a puddle of spilled Coors Light…who knows? The only thing I do know is: I was there, at the game–and, in some handicapacity, I’m sure I enjoyed it.

…that, and the Yankees won. Suck a dick, Boston.

Hairy Shaddock and the Deathly Holos

Earlier this week, I was approached by a jellyfish. Not just any jellyfish, mind you. This particular jellyfish donned human clothes and, apparently, had developed the ability to speak English in a fashion concurrent with that spoken in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. Peculiar as it seemed, I found myself incapable of avoiding a conversation with this astonishing sideshow attraction. “Yo, you see that YouTube video of Dre an’ Snoop rappin’ wit’ a hologram o’ Pac?” it gurgled at me. I stood there for a moment, deciphering what I believed to be fortuitous babble. “Nah, man…how is it?” I ultimately replied. “Shit’s crazy, yo! Look’s like dat nigga’s really there!” it spit back at me. Briefly, I reasoned whether or not to suggest that it shouldn’t go around dropping the “N-bomb” so haphazardly, but came to my senses (being that it was just a jellyfish and I wasn’t completely sure if the slave-ship taboo of the word applied to it in any way whatsoever). “Hmpf,” I muttered…”guess I’ll have to check it out.” The jellyfish didn’t say anything after that. It just stood there looking at me, as if I were going to break out into some dauntless song and dance routine at any second. I had no intention of performing such a gleeful task (Ha! Get it?). Then, after what seemed like a championship staring contest, it finally turned its glutinous back to me, slowly crept away and let off a dim glow that lit its path the entire way before, at long last, diving into a sewer duct and, I imagine, returning from whence it came. “I like that guys style” I mused to myself.

Later that evening, I found myself online, sifting through the balderdash, claptrap and poppycock contained within my email inbox. I read notifications of local job opportunities, skimmed over the rundowns of injustices worldwide (compliments of Amnesty International) and immediately trashed “Cease and Desist” warnings sent to me by the attorneys of certain celebrities that don’t understand my rare form of fan-boy admiration. Despite having all of this electrifying edification laid plainly in front of me, I began to grow bored with the monotony of the process and soon found my mind wandering impulsively towards the jellyfish’s advice. Before my mouth could even spout the words “thug life,” my finger-bangers had already boarded the YouTube train and I was expressly viewing Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and what appeared to be a holographic image of Makaveli himself, performing “Hail Mary,” Shakur’s classic introspective on the duality of a young black man’s axiom in the face of his supposed “Maker,” while also trying to survive within his given environment. Needless to say, I was pretty impressed with, what I believed to be at the time, the flawless use and direction of light and lasers to project one of hip-hop’s greatest and most influential artists onto the Coachella stage. The 10-year-old science fiction dork inside of me had a raging 3-inch boner (not a far cry short of what I dangle on the outside as an adult these days).

Hologram Tupac hypes up the Coachella crowd with his signature holo-graphic language.

While watching the dead shimmy across the festival’s stage, I began to fantasize about the various ways in which this scientific breakthrough could be used for mischief here at the offices of A New Low. Surely, given the rapid rate of advancement in its territory, the technology would soon be available to us (the general public) within the next year or so as a downloadable app for any of the various Apple iProducts. In no time at all, I schemed, we would be capable of mustering up a sequel to the cosmically-acclaimed Cal vs Dog Poo, starring none other than a holographic doppleganger of our long-absent budding star, Mr. Cal Biddle. Shit, we could even pull Joe Lentini out of the grimy bowels of Holy Matrimony and have his holo-clone give the skatepark another try! Even better, was the idea that we could save countless driving hours and gas expenses by relinquishing the need to go to NYC in order to film with Holden. If only we were able to procure the city’s culture, shopping, events and atmosphere here at home…we’d never have to set foot in that Rotten Apple again!! Certainly, I was on to something with these delusions of holo-grandeur.

It was at this point that my thoughts began to take a despondent turn. My inherent fascination with death (spawned by, I firmly believe, the demise of basically my entire immediate family throughout my own infancy on this planet) began to conquer my fairyland figments of special effect-laden, cyberspace dominance. What if I were to go and kick Mr. Bucket square in his jolly fucking face sometime next week? Would my friend since 7th grade, Eric Thomas Craven, use my holographic image for some post-humous editions of Toby n’ Deric? And, if so, would I be portrayed in a manner consistent with my own will? For all I know, he could forget to include the brownish-green glimmer of my teeth that, to some patrons of this website, have become my signature characteristic! What if my holo-twin was given a topless scene in a future skit? Would my asymmetrical chest hair patch be accurately reproduced? What about the winding trail of sporadic, cilium strands pouring down my back, leading into the brown, diamond-shaped thicket that grows where my “tramp stamp” should be? Would they be invited to the party? Furthermore, what if my double were to lose his pants in such hypothetical treasures as Son of a Bitch X: Sock Monkey in Space? Would he rock the “full bush” look popularized by frat-house staple, College Dudes or would he get an updated, clean-shaven schwantz for the world to enjoy??

Deliberating these questions, I soon found myself feeling less than enthusiastic regarding the use of laser light shows to accomplish anything except eye surgery and entertaining drugged-out Pink Floyd fans. Not only did it seem a bit creepy, it came across as moderately disrespectful, given that the person wasn’t around to approve (or disapprove) of the way they’d be depicted. Everyone, alive or dead, should be entitled to choose what they do or don’t affiliate themselves with, even if the audience is aware that it’s merely a projected likeness of that person. Am I wrong? Possibly. Or maybe I’m just a big sack of pussy-puss that is mildly spooked by the notion of dead celebrities parading around a venue, holo-lip-synching to their earthly chart-toppers while audiences hand over their hard-earned bankroll to cheer on thin air and listen to songs being played off the same iPod that most of ’em have in their own pocket! And I thought Stones tickets were a ridiculous waste of money!! At least those legendary zombies are really there, in the FLESH!!! Not to mention, who gets all of that filthy lucre being brought in by these famous apparitions? The family of the deceased? Doubtful. I’m willing to bet that 9 times out of 10, their former record label is the fat cat raking in the foolishly spent greenbacks of these unfortunate fans (unless proper legal arrangements were made prior to the stars’ demise). If so, that would mean Suge Knight possibly received a generous donation towards his hefty legal debts directly after Tupac’s ghostly Coachella performance. I have no proof of this…just a few million pennies for your thoughts.

Before I bring this ripened rant to a close, I would like to point out something that was brought to my attention later in my research on this unsettling form of modern entertainment. These supposed holograms are indeed NOT HOLOGRAMS AT ALL!!! Real holograms utilize light or laser placement and direction to convey a 3-dimensional image that you could put your hand right through. These shams, that are currently on the edge of Trendtown, are merely reels of film projected into a mirror, which are then reflected onto a transparent screen, which the audience can’t see, creating an illusion of the celebrity just feet in front of the fools! It’s a parlour trick used by magicians and con-men since the 1800’s!

In the old days, mirrors were used for more than just peeking up skirts n' cocaine spill trays. They helped trick people into believing anything!!

Apparently, the world is still just as gullible. Since I began typing this, I’ve come across numerous articles suggesting TLC do a reunion tour utilizing a Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes hologram, amongst a bombardment of other equally doltish proposals. I whole-heartedly endorse a boycott against this entire debacle. As much as I would cherish a performance from the likes of such cadavers as Joey Ramone, Layne Staley, GG Allin or Elliot Smith, I cannot logically or morally hand over even a cent of my limited scratch in exchange for any of these fraudulent concoctions. I’d suggest you, the reader, join me in this quest against musical psuedo-immortality. Together, we can put an end to this disgusting charade, wiping it from the face of the Earth, collectively. We can call it…The Holo-caust!

Beverly Hills 902-OH NO!!!!!

In the grand tradition of dependable investigative journalism, such as Eric Thomas Craven’s groundbreaking masterpiece, Conspiracy Theory; I am proud to announce yet another truth-exposing, eye opener regarding the secret lives of America’s largest household pests…celebrities. What started as mild research for a humorous feature on a morbid deformity, quickly turned in to an entire evening…my face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen, slowly putting the pieces of a twisted puzzle together. A puzzle so disturbing, I may be risking life and limb unveiling it. But, when I first signed up for A New Low over 10 years ago, I was well aware that no matter what sleaze we subjected the world to, there would always be truth behind it. And sometimes brandishing the truth takes balls. Today…I show the world my balls.

As young children, many of us experience terrifying or traumatic events that can (and often do) haunt and horrify us in our adult lives. Some kids get their favorite action figure taken away for an illogical reason, then spend their grown years throwing money away on Action Man reboots in an attempt to compensate for that one lost toy. Others may get their buttholes fingered by some perverted uncle and develop intimacy issues down the road. For me, there is one horrendous event in my childhood (out of a plethora…it was the 80’s) that stands out and still terrifies me to this day. This one milestone in my pre-pubescence, ladies and gentlemen, is none other than the first time I was presented with the rat-like, offset-eyed face of Ms. Shannen Doherty!!!

Using the technological power of straight lines, Ms. Doherty's mutation is easy to spot.

Needless to say, I’ve struggled my entire life since then to view any of her work (exceptions being a couple supporting roles in Heathers and Mallrats). I cringe at the very sight of her and have no idea how she keeps getting gigs. On the TV show, Our House, it perplexed my young brain as to how SHE was supposed to be the “cool” older sister to a budding homosexual Chad Allen and loving granddaughter to a budding diabetic Wilford Brimley. If I were them, I would’ve kept her in the basement or the backyard and off of the show altogether. Later down the line, she portrayed Brenda Walsh, a recent immigrant from Minnesota who was quickly accepted by the popular kids on Beverly Hills 90210. This confused me even more, given my own struggle with any popularity. And aside from a somewhat large head, I wasn’t even deformed! But there she was. Influencing all of my female peers with fashion pointers and “how-to’s” regarding virginity loss on prom night (poor Dylan McKay). Subsequently, she joined the cast of Charmed, which I never watched due to the nonsensical idea that a witch wouldn’t use her powers to fix her fucking face. I prefer a li’l realism with my fiction. Nowadays, it’s gotten even worse. I am repeatedly forced to view advertisements for her new show that chronicles her third wedding. This blows my mind even more! Not only does this abomination keep getting work…it keeps tricking schmoes into marrying it!! Pondering these facts, I knew that something with this “actress” was definitely askew. And it was up to me to figure it out.

Relentlessly, I probed the internet for clues regarding the secrets to this abnormality’s success. How was the rest of the world viewing her without the disgust I had felt since adolescence? Why was she repeatedly cast in television shows, with an existing reputation of being “hard to work with,” while me and my brilliant, handsome band of cohorts floundered in hyperspace mediocrity? Was she like a Morlock in X-Men? Too hideous to live, on the surface…but with a mutant power of mind control that had enabled her to do just that? There had to be an answer somewhere. Then, like a forty-something, bored housewife viewing this site while flicking her bean, it came to me. Shannen Doherty is, IN FACT, a revamped form of the being more commonly known as…


For those readers unfamiliar with Hedorah, it was an alien creature that came to Earth in 1970 and caused much calamity to the island country of Japan. Named for hedoro, the Japanese word for sludge, vomit, slime or chemical ooze, it was comprised of several tadpole-like organisms that fed off of pollution and eventually grew in size and power before joining together into one large, oozy, shape-shifting powerhouse of destruction. It spewed hearty, acidic globs of shit onto anything that got in its path and was capable of devastating the entire planet into a toxic wasteland. Eventually, with the aid of Godzilla (who had unsuccessfully fought Hedorah numerous times throughout it’s development), Japanese scientists were able to defeat it by drying it out with giant electrodes. Alas, if even one particle of Hedorah were to go on hydrated, it would be able to feed off of our pollution and, again, grow in size and stature, assuming perhaps a similar humanoid form. I firmly believe that those scientists indeed left a few stones unturned. It’s obvious, to me at least, that Hedorah is not only here still, but is thriving in Hollywood as an actress, threatening executives and potential grooms with ultimatums of roles and matrimony in exchange for the continuation of their lives!

The evidence, you ask?? I offer these morsels for you to nibble upon…

The uneven setting of the eyes is the first clue that Ms. Doherty isn’t quite human. Oddly enough, Hedorah shares this same trait when in humanoid form.

Hedorah was supposedly defeated in 1971. The same year as Doherty’s “birth.”

Hedorah often appears to be comprised of a black, oil-like sludge substance. Doherty can be seen wearing all black with black hair in 90% of the pictures I’ve viewed of her.

Hedorah came to Japan, fed on slime and eventually began destroying cities, giving itself a reputation as a monster. Doherty came to Hollywood, built herself up playing shitty parts in 1980’s television programming, eventually landed a dream role based around Beverly Hills (part of a city!!) and continually fought with cast members giving herself a reputation as a bitch and/or monster.

Hedorah fed off of garbage and shit to grow in size and regenerate if defeated. Doherty has accepted shittily written garbage parts only to have her career and status grow in size. And whenever she seems to have faded into pop-culture oblivion, she regenerates herself with a new piece of shit job.

Hedorah’s primary form of attack was to spew toxic slime at its enemies. Doherty’s acting is a prime example of toxin-spewing if I’ve ever seen one!!

In conclusion, I would like to inform you, the reader, that this is not an attempt to alarm the country by exposing the sheer FACT that we have a monster living among us that has propelled itself to celebrity status. I wrote this to educate the public about the monster and create awareness in case it were to ever start destroying cities again. Given its current size, it could probably be defeated by the common household hair-dryer. The best thing for us to do now, as a society, would be to keep an eye on it and prevent it from growing again…much like an unwanted patch of weeds in the backyard or unsightly body hair. If it does begin to increase in size though, I hope somebody has the number to the Fairy Twins of Infant Island. They can text Mothra and she knows how to get ahold of Godzilla. Unfortunately, he’s become a bit of a recluse over the years since that embarrassing Matthew Broderick involvement back in ’98.

Oh, and if I mysteriously die in a pool of toxic tar after this article goes public…tell Tiffany Amber Theissen she was always my favorite Beverly Hills bitch.

Wanderlust Director Uses Early Collaboration With Eric Thomas Craven to Promote Film

To pack people into theaters for his new comedy, Wanderlust, director/co-writer David Wain did what any struggling filmmaker would do…he made sure the opening weekend coincided with the release of a DVD showcasing his collected work with global art, film and literary sensation, Eric Thomas Craven.

The DVD compiles Wainy Days, a relatively unknown web series that exploded into a mushroom cloud of thermonuclear popularity once David cast Eric Thomas in the gripping two-part segment, “Rochelle”. When ETC was given a copy of the script, he revised all of his lines—in fact, he omitted them completely and even crossed his character out of 98% of the scenes he was to appear in. David—who had the added stress of his previous film, Role Models, being released to the home market the very next day—fought tirelessly with Eric Thomas…he didn’t want to lose Rochelle’s shining star. Eventually, ETC convinced David an air of mystique was essential to the character…that he’d sell the performance through nimble mannerisms and facial expressions; that it was imperative his screen time be minimal. The dark complexities of the role would pose a challenge to audiences—yet, captivate them, with many projecting their own inner conflicts and moral ambiguities onto the character…ultimately, shaping him in their own image.

The results were outstanding. Rochelle earned David the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, seventy three Academy Awards, a Baseball Hall of Fame nomination and a fourteen month reign as WWE Intercontinental Champion.

These accolades certainly helped David in getting his new film green-lit, but securing a strong turnout at the box office would necessitate some large scale name-dropping…and that’s where the idea to finally release Wainy Days on DVD came into play—a little nudge to moviegoers, reminding ’em that he once worked with Eric Thomas Craven.

Remarkably, Eric Thomas Craven was not offered the lead role in Wanderlust, with it instead going to Paul Rudd…strange choice, because at the final performance of American Idiot on Broadway, Paul sat behind Eric Thomas…by like three rows. Regardless, ETC fully endorses both Wanderlust and Wainy Days.

So, remember, folks…Wanderlust is in theaters everywhere, Wainy Days is available here and Paul Rudd cannot even compete with Eric Thomas Craven as a patron of the arts.

A New Low’s Top Search Engine Terms

These were the top search terms that led people to anewlow.net yesterday.

To the best of my knowledge, anewlow.net offers none of these things…however, we’re this close to getting an Indian girl to spread ass.

I get the feeling we have a lot of unsatisfied customers around here. If you’re unhappy with your purchase, I’m sorry, I cannot issue a cash refund…but If you’ve held onto your receipt, I can give you store credit, or offer an even exchange. Here at anewlow.net, we have a wide assortment of shitting guys, guys shitting and, why settle for pics…we’ve got guy shitting videos! For those of you looking for Propagandhi tweets, I scrounged up 140 characters from their song, The State Lottery:

Does it seem strange to you? The confetti/the balloons/the mile-wide grins/the victory dance to welcome in the heir to a state of disrepair?

If it’s really the shittin’ girls you came for…hang in there. We get new product every week, but we never know what the warehouse is going to ship us. The best advice I can give you is: keep coming back and hopefully we’ll have some in stock the next time you’re here.

A Portion of My Résumé: Exceptional Customer Service

The following customer complaint was emailed to the corporate offices of the company I work for. After being scolded at, I was able to intercept it from my district manager’s briefcase while she was in the bathroom (presumably wiping her butt while fingering herself).

I went to Trade Secret @ the Arnot Mall in Big Flats, NY. It was my first visit. I am very pleased with my cut, color and highlights. I am shocked, however, at the extreme lack of professionalism, that started with my initial call to make an appointment and continued until I left my stylist’s chair. I called and described what I wanted done, and asked if I could get in that evening. Two minutes of total silence…I thought perhaps a simple “hold on” or “let me check for you” would have been appropriate before leaving me hanging on the phone. Once in the salon, I was even more shocked. I was told to have a seat. I looked around and had to ask, “Uh, Where?” as there are no seats in the reception area for clients to relax in while waiting. He pointed up on the salon floor and said that I could sit in a cutting chair. While my color was processing, I decided to shop in the retail area next to the reception desk. The reception person, who I have learned by this time is Eric, answered the phone with a Trade Secret greeting then smiles and says “Oh, it’s you! I thought it was a S-T-U-P-I-D customer!” I was appalled. If I were not in the middle of a process I would have walked out right at that moment! Eric went on three breaks out in the mall while I was in the salon for 2 hours and entertained 1-3 friends at all times while in the salon. They were talking, laughing, having a great time. My stylist left her chair to greet customers, explain sales, and ring up a person because Eric was nowhere around. That was MY time he was stealing. I had a husband and 2 children waiting for me in the mall and my appointment would have been shortened by at least a half hour if my stylist did not have to wait on other customers that were Eric’s responsibility. I saw one paying customer besides myself while there. I saw one free haircolor and two separate stylists give free haircuts to friends. Upon asking my stylists when the manager would be in because I would like to speak to her, I learned that the store has no manager. Well, that was quite obvious! I love my hair. My stylist was amazing and I spent just under $100 that evening, but would I go back? Probably not unless that stylist went to another salon. All my friends love my hair and ask where I had it done. I tell them, but I also share my ridiculous experience and no one is interested in going themselves, and who could honestly blame them?

Darlene Niver
209 Meadowlark Road
Horseheads, NY 14845
(607) 734-6613


Bella Morte “In The Dirt”

The day A N’ L Lies was released (available here for an absolutely JUICY eight dollars and fifty cents), John Holden, Taem Jones and I migrated to Chattanooga, Tennessee to promote the DVD at Con Nooga 2010, pass the Bella Morte music video torch to Troma president, Lloyd Kaufman and participate in said music video, Bella Morte’s In the Dirt.

Now, first and foremost, I’d like to address why I wasn’t asked to direct Bella Morte’s new video. Afterall, I helmed the last three (zombie prom masterpiece, Earth Angel; dizzying blue hurricane of cinematic triumph, On The Edge; and the one with feathers, Find Forever Gone)…naturally, their fans were chanting my name in harmonic unison, awaiting the fourth coming of—what was it they were calling me…the “music video messiah” or something to that effect. So, what happened?

As you well know, I’m taking Hollywood by storm. I’m a very big deal. Essentially, I was asking 6 figures to do the new video…but Cock-Block Kaufman agreed to do it for a #6 at Taco Bell. See, it’s problematic when filmmakers are more involved with “art” and less concerned with money. So now, my name doesn’t appear in lights and my bank account suffers…it’s like, go get a paintbrush or something, artfag.

Lloyd and his Troma imprint were a very important part of my upbringing. Five minutes into my young and tender first viewing of the Toxic Avenger, my father jabbed his gurthy, vein rippled viking thumb hard into the eject button on our VCR and set sail for an angry return to Little Joe’s Video Rental. My parents thought it was a little too vulgar. They had no idea their attempts to shelter me from folks like Toxie would only fuel my growing curiosity of the obscene; force-feeding my imagination with more swear words, boogers, poop and toxic waste than you could find in all of Tromaville; ultimately, stitching a lifelong fascination with all things gross, shocking and heinous within the fabric of my soul. Hopping out of the director’s chair for Lloyd was a real honor…and knowing that I’d farted in it moments before he called “move your feet, lose your feet” was an added bonus.

So, without further ado, here’s Lloyd Kaufman’s latest work, STARRING John Holden, Taem Jones, myself, Toxie…and some unnecessary secretary (?) who makes the same face in every scene she’s in. Enjoy!

Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 4)

Dave Matthews Band Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King
Freshman dorm room beer-slut music.

Gym Class Heroes The Quilt
Introductory hip hop for emo bedwetters.

Black Eyed Peas The E.N.D.
Sports bar music for divorced Caucasians.

Cobra Starship Hot Mess
Adults dressed like/performing for preteens.

Muse The Resistance
The “Delta Kappa Radiohead” roofies Queen.

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Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 3)

Paramore Brand New Eyes
Wentz groupies create more kindergarten anthems.

Kings of Leon Only by the Night
The sound of bearded men crying.

Asher Roth Asleep in the Bread Aisle
Rap for all-white, gated communities.

Jay-Z The Blueprint 3
Egomaniacal nursey rhymes, brand name packaging.

Ke$ha Animal
Cum-belching whore lowers the bar.

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Six-Word Record Reviews (vol.2)

Vampire Weekend Contra
Abercrombie approved, sorority house turd rock.

3Oh!3 Want
Dumb jocks discover shitty laptop beats.

BrokeNCYDE I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It!
Bizkit’s five remaining fans discover 3Oh!3.

Jack’s Mannequin The Glass Passenger
Singer’s leukemia compressed into audio format.

Bayside Bayside
Did their drummer die of boredom?


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Hey, signature police…suck my John Han-cock.

sig·na·ture / ˈsignəchər; -ˌchoŏr/

• n. 1. a person’s name written in a distinctive way as a form of identification in authorizing a check or document or concluding a letter.

Sorry for downplaying your intelligence up there, but I just got into an argument with a store clerk over my signature. Tell me how this bitch goes all day seeing illegible scribbles, careless dashes, lazy wiggle lines that (perhaps, symbolically) match the final moments of life on hospital heart monitor…and when something with a little pizazz comes by, she’s gotta flip shit over it?

Two decades ago, when I first started signing my name in an unconventional manner, it was merely a young boy’s protest against ol’ wacky-loops cursive. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the art of calligraphy…it’s his mentally challenged little brother, cursive, that I don’t care for. More often than not, cursive is written in haste, the results are ugly and it’s difficult to read. I like my eyes to glide smoothly over a sentence—opposed to straining them and wrestling the paper into different viewing angles while trying to locate my decoder ring. All these years later and I still get motion sickness trying to follow those obnoxious squiggles around. Man…fuck you, cursive.

By the time I graduated high school, my parents noticed my signature remained relatively consistent with it’s humble beginnings in Mrs. Karabaich’s fifth grade classroom. They warned me of the trouble I was setting myself up for, particularly, signing legal documents as an adult. Perhaps that’s all I needed to hear, because I appreciate easily avoidable confrontation.

So, I can admit that much. I’m well aware of it being an issue for some people. The question is…how is it an issue? The very definition of the word “signature” negates the entire argument.

I’ve got it partially figured out…and for the confusing remainder, I’ve come up with a possible workaround. The incident with this specific clerk caught me off guard because she was young. See, I’ve run into trouble with my signature four times prior to this, all with bitter old women. Now that is to be expected. There’s no sense trying to hide your misery when your tits haven’t been presentable in decades and your vagina is crustier than a sourdough roll in a hobo’s armpit. Of course you’re going to get mad at me for “doodling” on my credit slip when your vaginal lips are ashy and you haven’t felt an erection since menopause. However, if your private area is still adorned with a big, wet, pink bull’s-eye, don’t let something as trite as uncommon looking pen marks rile you into an ol’ beaten-hag frenzy.

Angry young women of America, hear me and hear me well. Your pussy will be a dilapidated mess soon enough…stressing out over a signature sure as hell isn’t slowing the process any. Do yourself a favor and enjoy life until the semen’s tapped and those labias are chapped.


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“This is why I don’t go out to the bars too often” or “This is why I should go out to the bars more often”

Wednesday night, on our way into the bar, Holden, Taem and I were called “the Jonas brothers” by a large girl in a small skirt.

Two hours later…

Taem sold his urine to some fella stressing out over a piss test he had to give for work in the morning, so our drinks were all paid for. The pee sample was collected and delivered in a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon…and with PBR being our beverage of choice for the evening (on account of the elegant blue ribbon), there’s really no telling whether or not one of us accidentally chugged down the wrong liquid at some point. Not that there’s any difference. I just wanted to point out that we may have drank entirely for free.

As we exited the bar, Miss Piggy makes another Jonas Bros comment, this time to an inebriated version of the trio who politely ignored her on the way in—moments into our retaliation, she is verbally assassinated.

Coming to her rescue was her wigger boyfriend, who spit in Taem’s face. Taem returned the gesture by decking him right in his chubby-muff chewin’ lips. Taem knocked the taste of swollen, thoroughly dimpled labia out of his mouth, a motion this white-boy-with-dreams-of-black-pigmentation didn’t take too kindly…triggering him to tackle Taem onto the pavement.

After the two of them rolled around, aggressively hugging in the street for about a minute, they let go of one another and got up. As they brushed themselves off, continuing to size each other up, a cigarette fell from behind the Caucasian hoodrat’s ear…Holden graciously stepped in, picked it up and smoked it right in front of his fat ass. A gentleman, Holden thanked him as he exhaled that first satisfying puff of smoke.

Optimistic for more of a fight, I encourage Taem to snap into a Slim Jim…however, a faithful Christian, Taem’s more of a “say your prayers and take your vitamins” kinda guy…so he removed his shirt, revealing a pair of 24″ pythons, each freshly dipped in baby oil and ready for round two.

With excitement bubbling inside me, I start heckling the wigger about his cell phone that fell and broke during the scuffle. He picked it up, insisting the phone still worked and, unexpectedly, walked away. He retreated quietly, taking his friend and the large girl who initiated this whole mess with him…a relentless tsunami of insults carrying them off into the night.

We couldn’t drive home because we were all still a bit tipsy and the cops were chilling in our parking lot, patiently awaiting a D.W.I. or two…so Taem, still shirtless, approached the officer, told him he was jumped, that his wallet was stolen and gave a brilliant description of the same guy he’d just humiliated in the fight. As soon as the cops cleared out in search of the perpetrator, we ran to our vehicle giggling and drove off all drunk.

Jonas Brothers, for the win!

Taking Pity on the Second City: Our Trip to Chicago

Whipple_StScreeching Weasel and Alkaline Trio, my two all-time favorite midwestern bands, sharing a stage on their home turf of Chicago, Illinois…and it happens to fall on Tony Shaddock’s birthday. Clearly, this event was constructed from the ground up with us in mind. After ordering five tickets, only three of which were claimed, Tony, Yetti and I set off on an epic pilgrimage, one that would reunite us with old pal, Doug “L’il Fart” McLaren…and change the course of history forever.

The astonishing photography and masterfullly composed captions and anecdotes herein chronicle our expedition.

Now let’s enjoy the Miami of Canada—Chicago!

October 10th
10:23 am

On a spiritual journey to the Windy City with Yetti & Tony Shaddock.

10:58 am
Three guys in a car…and I’m breathin’ on Easy Street? Someone needs to spark up this roadtrip with a wet hot fart.

11:18 am
“You boys ain’t from around here…you have no business o’er at Joncy gorge. Take yer city haircuts n’ go on, git!”

1:18 pm
Sleeping like a baby…particularly one of the dead babies in that sack he’s resting his head on.

5:46 pm
Who goes over my travel route before every roadtrip & makes sure to redirect me on a Dunkin Donutsless path? Whoever you are, go get raped.

8:23 pm
We crossed time zones unscathed. Hey, 7 o’clock, we have a second chance together…try not to fuck it up this time.

9:39 pm
Chicago arrival. First on the agenda? SUH FUCKEN REAL DEEP DISH CHICAGUH PIZZUH.

11:21 pm
Sippin’ on a 312 Urban Wheat Ale at some Korean dive bar. L’il Fart ordered a “hot sucky” and all he got was some lousy drink in a ceramic flask. If Asian fellatio is this hard to come by (pun intended, LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!) in the Big Onion, I’m not impressed. On the bright side—according to this coaster, my Survival Kit is almost half completed…
Two down, three to go. Baby just needs a new pair of shoes, a designer purse…and flashin’ my juicy tits for some fancy beads should be easy enough in this toddlin’ town. Bring on the night!

October 11th
Happy birthday, baby Shaddock.

1:51 am
My heart’s telling me this is a Rum n’ Coke in my hand, but my brain’s telling me it’s Roofies n’ NyQuil. I need to flee this crowded bar and get some shut-eye. I know the risk of walking these streets at night with only two-fifths of my Survival Kit…but I simply cannot go on. No rest for the wicked. Mr. McLaren, gimme a firm floor to sleep on.

12:02 pm
Good morning, city cats.

12:28 pm
Not even birthday songs or burger crowns will wake this tiny dancer.

2:10 pm
May I wax philosophical for a moment?

When you’re soaking your meat bone shaft-deep in some poon tang, you’re in a quaint village of physical pleasure the guys and I like to call “Tangtown.”

Likewise, if you and a buddy are forming a “wobbly H” with a gal, you know, having a little ménage à trois, or, in laymen’s terms, tag-teaming the ol’ broad…I’ve just determined that must be a suburb of Tangtown called “Tagtown.”

Now, it all sounds well and fine…however, after pondering this for a while over my morning coffee, I’ve uncovered a paradox.

If “Tagtown” is basically “Tangtown” with an additional person…you gain a friend, yet lose the “n”…

Is it really worth it?

7:24 pm
After standing out in the cold for roughly an hour, desperately asking every passerby: “tickets?” or, when I was feeling articulate: “do you need tickets?”—I finally sold my extra. I lost $10 on it and missed who-knows how many bands while I was out here. Fuck you, Horseheads bums, for not taking it off my hands. “Whoa, ETC…chillax, bro. You know how much I hate awesomeness. Hey, when you get back, can you help me build a shelter incase the Soviets attack the U.S. with rainbow-colored FUN Bombs?”

8:00 pm
A secret Teenage Bottlerocket gig after the show tonight? Free entry? Busing provided? Don’t mind if I do.

8:16 pm
Dude shitting in stall with no door. Tons of dudes walking by. Pants off. T.p. rolled away from him at one point.

8:45 pm
I have waited 14 years for this moment. I’m watching Screeching Weasel. In Chicago. I rule.

10:22 pm
Now I’m watching Alkaline Trio. In Chicago. I’m back to rule again.

No idea what time it is.
I’m actually writing this portion in retrospect, because the battery in my phone died shortly after Alkaline Trio finished their set. This is a blessing in disguise, of course, because at this level of intoxication, I’m liable to drop, throw or trade my iPhone for a cigarette.

Waiting for a shuttle bus to take us across town to the secret Teenage Bottlerocket show.

Speaking of which…if you’re in the Chicago school district and awesome enough to sit in the back of the bus with people of premium-grade superiority…and the seat in front of you has “www.anewlow.net for free pussy” written on it; wreathed with monstrous, cum spurting penises both uncircumcised and snipped (we covered all bases)…know your little pockmarked butt cheeks are sharing a seat once warmed by the chiseled asses of your heroes, Tony Shaddock and Eric Thomas Craven.

Teenage Bottlerocket were pretty rad…

…though, I’ve got to be honest, I want less of this sappy lovey dovey crap and more songs about aliens, zombies and spies. Bring back The Lillingtons.

October 12th (Columbus Day)
Happy Rape, Pillage, Murder and Enslave the Indians day! Fuck you, Chris Columbus.

10:24 am
Interesting postscript to dude shitting in stall with no door:

1:26 pm
The “Zombie”:
That’s three shots of espresso, two cups of coffee, steamed milk and whipped cream topped with chocolate and caramel drizzle…I’ll be walkin’ outta here with Shaddock teeth.

5:27 pm
I got some pussy in Chicago.

5:40 pm
Sightseeing in Logan Square.

6:11 pm
The Sears Tower. Chicago, Illinois.

6:20 pm
Goodbye, Chicago.

7:06 pm
Family reunion in Rolling Prairie, Indiana.‎

7:16 pm
Crossed back into good ol’ Eastern Standard Time. 6pm October 12, 2009, it’s a shame we never got to know eachother…

October 13th

2:55 am
Back in New York. Made the 911 call on this l’il number—car in a ditch off the interstate. We were really hoping to see a dead body…but she was fine.

3:40 am
Yetti got caught pissin’ in public. Amateur. Then allowed them to search his car? Amateur. I’m just glad they didn’t look under my seat. That’s right, I’m bad. Real bad. Michael Jackson.

5:28 am
Alright, gang, you can rest easy now…we’ve landed back in Horseheads, safe n’ sound.

CubsHowever, before I go and wrap this up, I’d like to address a pretty big concern of mine…

While in Chicago, we hopped a train downtown and went to Millenium Park…only to be told by the officer on duty that the park closes at night.

Rape is already a pretty challenging sport…we don’t need the level of difficulty raised. Are we honestly expected to abduct some broad OUTSIDE the park, sneak her in past security and just use the park grounds for some sort of exotic effect? Parks are good for prowling. The rape itself isn’t performed within the perimeters of a park for atmosphere, but for the convenience of supplying victim(s), isolation, and, in the event that you take things too far, providing a satisfactory plot for interment.

Way to take the fun out of nightlife in the big city, Chicago.

Furthermore, I’ve done some research…and apparently Chicago doesn’t report its statistics for rape. Check out this city crime comparison from 2006.

I’ll tell you why Chicago’s rape statistics aren’t available: NO ONE GETS RAPED IN CHICAGO.

What kind of city has the rape record of a happy suburban cul-de-sac out of the 1950’s with a “neighborhood watch” program ? Not a very good one, I’ll tell you that right now.

Hey Chicago, go get raped.