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