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Tuesday, October 26, 2010


Take a guy who is so painfully stupid that he would require a university degree in Advanced Idiocy just to upgrade to 'Moron' and breed him with the inbred, moonshine and Quaalude induced spawn of the most backwards, developmentally challenged mouth breathers that Arkansas has to offer. Mix the result with a know-it-all 14 year old boy who is certain that the best way to prove he's right, (as with all know-it-all 14 year olds) is to spew out all his knowledge as loudly and as often as possible, all the while recounting the many amazing fights he's been in (and won, of course). Now add a surly old drunk who has accomplished one memorable (albeit only to him) thing in his entire life, but feels it is of such overwhelming importance and interest that he spends the rest of his drab existence retelling the tale to anyone unfortunate enough to to be caught within earshot, a fair distance really, if you recall the 'volume challenged' 14 year old boy we added in step 3. Blend in a near psychotic delusional belief that allows him to think he is smarter than everyone else, stronger, more capable, better looking and successful than everyone else. Now, take the result of all the above steps and fill its brain with alcohol and crack cocaine for several years and you may come close to approximating the landlord that Misanthropy and myself have been subjected to for the past 4 months.

But, I will share more on that misadventure some other time - right now, I’m just too fucking excited, vibrating, 5 out of 7 nipples tingling and erect! The new Band thing is really starting to fall into place - we’re going Old School 3 Piece, everybody plays, everybody sings, every member is a Front Man. It;ll be cozy, just me (The RobScenity) on guitar, The Soon To Be Legendary Lee (Who cam do Sean Connory’s voice better than Sean Connory can, and do it for 4 hours without dropping character) on Bass, and, keeping the beat will be young Stiv, who is also gainfully employed in the same dismal retail HELL I spend most of my days in. We call hin Stiv due to the uncanny resemblance he bears to Stiv Bators, the old singer for The Dead Boys (remember Sonic Reducer?) only with neater hair and teeth. There's also the strange coincidence that Stiv (our Stiv) was born not too terribly long after Stiv (the first one) was killed by a drunk driver. Think about it - just exactly how fucking cool would that be-To have the actual reincarnation of Stiv Bators playing in our band? How cool? I’ll TELL ya how cool - MassCool! MassCool to the nth!!!




Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Delays ...

I know it's been eternity since either one of us has posted anything, but you will soon be treated (subjected?) to our combined eye witness accounts of  the inhumanly fast decline and fall of a dope-simple retard we had the misfortune to become acquainted with. Stand by for details!!

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

July 13 / 14 XLV A.S.




    Right. It came and went almost as explosively as I did. The day marking my 53rd year on this wad of human - infested (and infected) dirt, rock and H20 we all call home for now shot up on me, once again without sufficiently alerting me as to it's arrival, causing me to spend my most favorite of all days high, giggling and ecstatically happy while immersed in the exciting, vibrant world of retail sales.
    The day was very neatly sandwiched between the 2 most intense (almost lethal) examples of 'Birthday Sex' I have ever experienced - MsAnthropy having decided that one session was not enough to trumpet in my big Five-Three, rather, the event must be firmly wedged between two bookends of such extraordinary sexual extremism that, had I not been aware of her feelings towards me, I would have thought to be an assassination attempt. No kidding. 53 years old and doing things in a manner that would scare the very living shit out of most normal, healthy 22 year olds. Suffice it to say that my brains and entire CNS were, quite literally, jolted. Shocked like a Death Row inmate riding the lightening. So, speeding headlong through the afterglow, along with enough endorphins to drop a 300- dollar- a -day- junkie dead in his tracks (pun intended), I ripped through my Birthday ripped, a massive malignant grin on my head, and the beginnings of a new, improved "Master Plan" thudding through the brain.
    My day went off as though I'd written the script myself, timing was perfect, and everything happened as it should, all of which means that I am writing this the day after, tingling like a fresh 9-volt battery on wet tongue, riding the tail of a thoroughly enjoyable (and deserved) amphetamine riptide.
     My point? Don't have one. C'mon, you've known me long enough to know the futility in looking for a point to most of my ramblings, so don't act so shocked. Wait. There IS a point! And the point is this: Birthday Sex, especially if performed twice (once at each end of the BD) totally fucking rocks the nuts right off that sweater-vest Aunt Enid knitted for you.

Be safe, and Adiós for now.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Unfolding Pt.1

Due to a recent unfolding of events, which I shall not re-unfold again here, as any events, plots or anything of that nature, when unfolded by my brain, tend to exhibit an attribute shared by both the 'Gas Station Road Map' and the 50 cent 'Emergency Poncho'. The particular attribute of which I speak, for anyone sheltered, isolated or just plain fucking lucky enough to have sailed through life without experiencing any Map/Poncho (and to a lesser extent, sleeping bag)interactions, is the complete and total improbability of success when attempting to re-fold the item in question so that it will fit back into it's original packaging. For reasons which the most respected members of the physics community have yet been unable to explain, this seemingly simple act of re-folding an item along it's original creases is but a fantasy, a fevered dream, and a 99.99% impossibility.
So, as far as my recent events are concerned, they will have to be content just staying right there in their packages, never to see the light of day, unless the viewing of said light is conducted in a decidedly folded state.
Now, then, although those particular events shall remain folded, packaged and all but forgotten for the rest of time, that which they inspired, or triggered, shall not. What they shall be, however, is continued, soon. Promise.

Until then, be safe and adiós for now.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Watching TV commercials about items for cats makes me so wistful to buy something for Anubis. I will miss buying him fancy cat treats and wet and dry food, toys, cat nip, even his heavy cat litter.
I loved his loud, long lasting purr, intoxicating scent, comfy naps, and countless cuddles. He was so loving and affectionate! I miss hearing his impatient tail flicks to the floor, quiet meows to get lifted up someplace too high to jump, loud meows to have the door open. Such a regal and proud cat! He liked dragging the curtain behind his tail as he entered the living room from the sliding door to make an entrance.
He was really charming,funny, and such a brat at times! The way he could scratch at his litterbox for twenty mintutes to make sure his dump was covered and have his cat litter all over the floor during the process. He liked to sit on Rob's feet, try to bully us out of our pillow by being a hat, run like a fag if the blinds shifted from a breeze, and was fascinated by the sex towel-you know the one you use to wipe after you finish fucking. teehee!
I wish I had more time with him-a lifetime to be honest. Anubis was our baby, he will be loved and missed forever

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

R.I.P. Anubis

 This is the most difficult thing I've had to write, and there's really no way to ease into it.
 On Wednesday, May 26, XLV, a.s., Malaise and I lost our beloved little guy. Anubis left this plane of existence suddenly and painlessly at 1:00 pm from an apparent stroke / seizure. 
  We are having him cremated so we can both carry a part of him with us, not that there isn't a part of him in every cell of our being.  The one fortunate part of this miserable bit of news is that we were all together for his last hours, at the home of my little Sister, Babs, something for which we are eternally grateful and that I simply can't see as coincidence. Malaise and I had Anu enter our lives by the workings of my Sis, and it just so happens that my cat's sister was my sister's cat. 
  I don't believe that there was ever a cat quite so loved and loving as Anubis, nor one who is so sorely missed. True to his namesake, the Egyptian God, Anubis was a Protector of Animals and a Finder of Lost Things, he protected the 2 of us, and he sure found me when I was lost.  We love you, 'Nub, and we'll see you on the other side!
 We will be holding a Ritual for Anubis when the time is right and those who knew him will be informed as to date and location. 
 This is a miserable time for Mr&MsAnthropy, so thanks to all who sent their energies our way - much needed and much appreciated!

Ave Anubis!
Rege Anubis!!
Hail Anubis!!!

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

May 17, XLV, A.S.

Although I have been a complete lazy tit since, what, April 30th, in the writing department, I have not exhibited that same idleness in the thinking, observing, and saying 'What, exactly, the FUCK am I talking about' segments of life. In fact, during many of my outwardly appearing 'idle' moments, I have functioned as sometimes, somewhat, something of a combo form of Adviser / Confidante / Talk-Show-Host / Court Jester, (if such a combination is even relevant or desirable in today's high tech, Reality TV society). Plus, as a sort of off-handed bonus, I'm learning (and re-learning) a huge amount of MassCool shit. Prime example: the whole 'romance' thing, as experienced by a 14 year old. I had totally forgotten just how difficult, frustrating and awkward 'romance' could actually be. I had also, (presumably during that same episode of sociocultural amnesia), allowed my grasp of the rules and regulations pertaining to early teen dating to lapse considerably, along with what little I recall of the MASSIVE list of what constitutes acceptable behavior in the sometimes pimply, often bitchy and almost always Nightmare world of young adult dating practices. I personally thought that the whole, age-old Boy / Girl interaction thing had actually gotten easier over the years – certainly nothing like the rigid, Draconian, etched-eternally-in-stone set of laws we'd had handed down to us! Nope. Hasn't changed. And not just hasn't changed maybe a little, oh no. Hasn't changed one fucking bit. I had made the awesomely bone-headed assumption that all of our technological advances would also include advances in the basic field of desirable wetware interfacing – an assumption I will never again entertain. Even in our phenomenal hyper-tech world of the future, one set of Ancient Universal Truths remains – zits are still zits, skins are still oily, and teenaged boys will still turn 97 shades of red and refuse to make eye contact when speaking to the object of their desires. Sorry, I won't single out the boys: the girls are afflicted just as bad. Increased computer literacy, high-tech gadgets anywhere they'll fit, astounding advances in every single one of the sciences (except, of course, the one science that actually counts) have, quite obviously, removed virtually all of the technophobia that plagued my age cohort, and let's face it – to us, living in the 'way back times', everything was totally new and alien. Even the most basic concepts behind many of the newly sprouting tech wonders were beyond us. And if that wasn't bad enough, the only people around to explain these things to us were our parents, who knew and understood even less about technology than we did. This was not a case of the blind leading the blind, it was more like the thick leading the dense. Or maybe the dead leading the stupid. But here, let me make this a little easier for you to grasp. No amount of description, no pages of oh-so-clever phrasing could put our primitive level of technological retardation into perspective more completely then these next 3 words:

Pong Impressed Us.

No shit. A tiny square of light batted across a TV screen by 2 equally unimpressive sticks of light had us stunned fucking rigid! Pong was like something we had never even imagined. Why, you could actually play ping-pong, and even tennis, right there in your own home, right there on your own TV – all through the miracle of 'Modern Technology'! Large groups of us would skip school, get ripped senseless and have mass Pong tournaments lasting upwards of 8 hours.
Now you tell me, is that not one of the saddest, most pathetic things you've ever heard?
And now you answer me, yes. Yes, Rob, it is.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Well, I'd certainly like to wish everyone on the Satanic side a happy and productive Walpurgisnacht! May everything go exactly the way it should for you and yours and may you have a truly fortuitous upcoming year!!! And to kick it off right, here's something to fire off at the WL'ers, from all of me to all of you!

The rushing torrent of foul misfortune is turned back, forced back along it's own path. Like a crippled Ouroboros, spine snapped, no longer the perfect eternal circle, it eats it's own tail, devouring and forever destroying any progress or inroads it may have made. The end of this repast, however, shall not see a settling of the tab, along with the requisite empty promises to 'do this again real soon'. No, this 'last supper' will be accompanied by only a single, dull thud – the final beat of millions of hearts winding down upon the realization that their entire lives were spent on the receiving end of the biggest scam in human history. And, as one final slap in the face, I'd like them to know that it is precisely that beat that my kind will be dancing to!!!

Ave Satanas,
Rege Satanas,
Hail Satan!!!

And, as always, Be safe!

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Continued...

Continued from last post

The Crash, Bottoming Out, Burning Down, whatever you want to call it, starts out slow, almost unnoticeable – each individual element still working. But if a device existed for measuring this effect, it would indicate that the sleep deprivation part was unarguably far ahead of the pack on any scale, graph or pie-chart. It is at this exact point that things become dangerous, as the sleep deprivation has us thoroughly convinced that our thought processes are still screaming along at their previously enhanced pace. They are, most definitely, not. Our formerly tight, solid thoughts now hold a cohesion factor several steps lower than a fart in a wind tunnel, and our communication skills could easily be matched by an intestinal worm with strep throat ( if intestinal worms even have throats to strep – can't imagine why they would). Our ability to complete one, single coherent sentence without stopping midway, looking thoroughly confused as if we'd only just arrived, is virtually nil. We start ambling from room to room, looking for something which, when questioned about, we cannot even identify. I have personally spent hours looking for something, then realizing I had no fucking clue as to what that something might be. Then comes the 'Dozing Off/Sudden Head Snap No! I'm Awake' phase. (do NOT operate heavy machinery at this point, which is also the point at which shoe laces and shirts with more than 3 buttons constitute heavy machinery). Finally, we sleep the sleep of the dead, or the heavily sedated, resting up for the next time, which begins in 3...2...1...

See you in the fast lane!!! 

April 10

    Whew, to say that the last few weeks have been insanely stressful would be an understatement, an understatement in the same vein as referring to WW11 as a rather nasty argument or saying that Carl Malden was slightly unattractive. We've been running on nerves,Adrenaline, rage and what my partner has so rightfully labeled Motivational Accelerators. All of which unite in that perfect biochemical ballet of form, function and sleep deprivation required to power through almost any shitty situation, buzzed enough to come out the other end laughing. I personally suspect the sleep deprivation plays a far greater role than Kara is willing to admit. Along with the award winning combo of nerves, accelerators, etc, the mixture isn't truly complete without the addition of Chinese food, pizza and hot dogs. At the conclusion of one particularly tense interval, my previous evenings pizza dinner made the acquaintance of today's hot dog lunch, they instantly hit it off, amalgamated their assets and sought escape via the most readily accessible route, all of which has led me to a perfectly workable theory regarding the origins of the 'Pizza Dog'.
Now, Adrenaline is an extremely powerful thing, enhancing our abilities – strength, speed, agility, awareness – allowing us to perform extraordinary feats, ie: the oft told (probably apocryphal) tale of the common housewife upending a crashed vehicle to rescue her trapped children – we've all seen Geraldo, Oprah et al.
     Our brains, in order to deal with the massive amounts of pain generated when exerting ourselves in super-human acts of Adrenaline fueled strength, releases another chemical into the bloodstream Endorphins. At an estimated 300 times the strength of Morphine, Endorphins are more than capable of killing most types of pain, with the added bonus effect of intense euphoria. 
      OK, now blend the Adrenaline and Endorphins – end result: a very fast, strong, aware, near painless individual who also just happens to feel FUCKING GREAT!
      But wait, there's more! When these 2 naturally occurring chemicals are then boosted by those Motivational Accelerators alluded to earlier, with their ability to deliver alertness, wakefulness, more euphoria and a clearer, sharper focus than any dose of Ritalin could ever dream of, we approach a state of mental/physical superiority unparallelled in the sphere of 'normal' human experience. Until they wear off.

Next time: The Crash

As always, be safe, adios for now.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Stick Day, Year XLV Anno Satanas


    So it's come and gone again, the anniversary of the day a group of morons, in a desperate attempt to avoid getting in trouble for losing a corpse, managed to bullshit everyone into believing some sort of 'miracle' had occurred, and that some dead hippie had been whisked away to heaven, absolving humanity of all sins long before most of said sins had even been thought of, let alone committed. The only real miracle here is that today, almost 2000 years later, there are still vast numbers of brain dead mouth-breather fuckwads who not only believe this crap, but actually pay money for the dubious honor of hearing some aging pedophile in a fancy frock go off about it on a weekly basis. Then they "symbolically" kill the hippie, eat his flesh and drink his blood, before breaking into smaller groups to meet at Denny's and talk about what horrid monsters all those Satanists and Pagans are, oblivious to the fact that good ol' 'Father' O' Buttplug is currently bent, sweating and grunting like a pig in a decathlon, over their trembling, terrified nephew, administering his very own custom made communion: "Sure it hurts, Billy, but at least that Holy Roman Marshmallow Egg will get the taste out of your mouth!" But all your favorite brother's 12 year old son can do is wonder what he's done wrong to merit such atrocious punishment, all the while resigning himself to a lifetime of servitude to the church to atone for his sins. Hey! Wait a minute! Wait just one, greasy, butt-fucking minute here!!! Hadn't he only just been assured that any and all of his sins had already been taken care of by that lost, dead hippie of 2000 years passed? Was this yet another example of the standard hypochristian bullshit spouted by so-called 'men of the cloth'? Men who's sole reason for joining the clergy was the ready, steady supply of preteen boy-butt, coupled with the near impossibility of being caught? Oh, yeah, and the only cloth in evidence around these professional, generational pedophiles is the hankies they use to wipe their pathetic, gooey shots of potential xtians from the frightened faces and painfully stretched assholes of little boys whose only crime was allow themselves to be manipulated and tortured in the name of a supposed 'god' (an even bigger prick than the priests for letting this happen to kids). Ah, their lord sure works in mysterious ways. I guess he has to, to avoid being caught and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. 


Happy Stick-Day to all our friends (and a rousing "go fuck yourself" to our enemies).


As always, be safe and adiós for now. 

Friday, March 26, 2010

The Wee Powermad

   Just came back from massively annoying trip to the Rental Board to try and axe an 'Order of Possession' filed on us by the stupid little bureaucratic building manager and his new mouth-breather, low brow hillbilly assistant (sorry, not meaning to trash on the REAL hillbillies, they'll understand).  On my exciting SkyTrain trip home, I started to wonder (again), what type of ineffectual, powerless, below average brain-dead plug of distended rectum filth would willingly want to put themselves in a position where regular folk will hate them even more than they already do?  They answer, for the moment, escapes me, as I am currently astride a mile high tower composed of an odd mixture of rage, euphoria, gleeful childlike bliss, and a thirst for vengeance the likes of which has not been witnessed outside the Deepest Pits of Hell. Oh, there's a candy bar in there too, but I think I'll save it for later.  So, what I need from ANYONE reading this (you know who you are) are theories, ideas, creation myths etc, regarding the origins and motivations of all those tiny, powerless cretins who take secondary and even tertiary positions that allow them to feel bigger, better and somehow more important than the rest of us.  Tough assignment - you CAN DO IT!!!!

Adios for now,
Be Safe.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

March Already



   Well, we've survived the 2010 winter games and managed to hide all our creepy shit from the rest of the world by sweeping our more visible problems under a thick carpet of Canadian beer and increased police presence. We showed the entire planet that we Vancouverites purchase only Olympic sanctioned products, never complain or protest anything, and all play on the same Hockey team (you could tell by all our several thousand players screaming “WE won, we won”).      Now we simply sit back and relax until our friends, The Maya, get their shot at impressing everyone (god DAMN, I hope they do a good show!) in 2012. Until then, I will remain as pissed as I can be that Tourism Canada once again rejected my proposal for an Official Provincial T-Shirt – “BC – Still Plenty Of Good Places To Hide A Body!” As some of you may recall, the Province of BC dealt me a similar slap in the face several years ago when they refused to allow my entry for the ‘Most popular pick-up line in British Columbia – “Hey!! The body's still warm!!”

     Now that we're all back to normal, here's one I've neglected to mention so far, yet has been getting me MassPissed for years. I guess just knowing it actually existed was enough to traumatize me into a decades-long bout of very selective amnesia. It's this: people who get on the bus smelling really strongly of food. I could almost tolerate it if they were carrying a take-out sack filled with the type of food they smelled like, but the ones I'm on about aren't. One also cannot match the food fragrance to the type of person likely to be emitting said aroma with any degree of accuracy, so the olfactory and visual cues don't even come close to lining up. Don't start whining, I'm not saying this from a racist standpoint, it's just that, over the course of our lives, we come to associate certain people with certain odors. For most of us Baby Boomers, for example, fat Italian guys are fully expected to pack the scent of either pizza or cigars, we anticipate that girls with glasses, braids and skirts slightly longer than current fashion dictates will come to class wafting the delicate bouquet of milk and stale, musty cloth.
The one that jarred all this loose from the back of my head today was a Chinese guy reeking away of Ukrainian cabbage - based cuisine, extra garlic. Not fair. He should have carried the aroma of a #3 Combination Dinner, just as I should, rightfully, broadcast the acrid tang of cigarettes, coffee and speed, just as one would expect from any self respecting, tail-end Baby Boomer. And, for the comfort of my fellow public transit patrons, I always strive to do so. Although I will admit that I usually leave out the coffee. Still, 2 out of 3, huh? Be safe.

Watch and Learn

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Ass

Totaal Verlept - El Agressivo

Totaal Verlept - Effe Bier Halle

Old and long-winded!!!

Believe it or not, this was actually the spoken intro to a song I wrote in 1985 (No idea what happened to the song!!)
 
    
       Raised By Rats (intro)
             Copyright NiK Normal, 1985 All rights reserved.


    This is the story of an accident. No, rather, it is the story of the result of a pair of unrelated accidents; two small spillages of liquids that would forever alter the course of human history.  
    The first spillage took place during a moment of indiscretion and haste, brought on by passion and aided by an ill - fitting condom, resulting in a seriously unwanted pregnancy. Four months into the ordeal, the reluctant (and under-aged) mother to be, in one final attempt at retaining her girlish figure, made a small purchase, on the advice of a friend. In a small, out of the way Botanica, she bought a tiny vial of potion. The Botanica was owned by an extremely old woman of un-discernible heritage, said to be well versed in Santeria, VooDoo, and Satanism, with a wee bit of Scientology thrown in, just for laughs. The old woman asked very little in exchange for the vial, but the girl, having shopped on Rodeo Drive and 5TH Avenue, refused to pay until she was sure the 'cure' had taken. Instead of getting angry, the old crone merely shrugged her shoulders and said "You pay now ... your entire species pays later ... either way makes no difference to me."
    Back at home, the girl choked down the foul liquid and settled down on the toilet, as per the crones instructions, and waited. She awoke, still perched on the porcelain, to a sensation not unlike the taking of a long overdue shit.
She flushed before standing, then walked out of the bathroom and out of history without ever looking back.
    The fetus, kept alive by the old woman's potion, traveled through the plumbing, finally coming to rest in the City's extensive sewer system. For days it drifted, a sad embryonic parody of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, but it' 'Albatross' was far more than just a sea-bird with promises of safe directions shoreward. No, his Albatross was the old woman's comment, "Pay now ... pays later ... makes no difference." which had sunk through to him while he was still safe and warm. The words would hang around his neck for years before taking wing and proving the old Witch right.  
    In the meantime, the squirming, mewling little mass was discovered by a scouting party of Rats, out foraging from a nearby Colony. Curious about this strange creature, and not yet possessed of the prejudices displayed by Man, the Rats decided to keep it and raise it as their own.
   At or about the same time, the second small spillage of liquid was about to occur at a large Metropolitan Hospital, where some highly illegal (but also highly profitable) experiments were being carried out in the wing devoted to nuclear medicine. These experiments went horribly wrong when a young intern accidentally exposed a test serum to an unusually high dosage of radiation. Embarrassed Hospital officials quickly and quietly disposed of the lethal result, unceremoniously flushing it down one of the lesser used staff toilets, where it, too, found it's way into the subterranean system of tunnels. Now, other than functional morons or those who simply were not listening, the rest have probably come to the conclusion that this same toxic concoction eventually wound up in the same section of sewers which played home to a certain Rat Colony and their already pre-mutated hairless charge. 
   The Colony's food and water supply was, unbeknownst to them, quickly and thoroughly contaminated, mutant, radioactive cells from the serum bonding with healthy cells in the food and water causing both types of cells to ... change. Over the next few years, the constantly increasing effects of the serum took their toll, causing some of the Colony to wither and die from diseases hitherto unknown to the Rats, while others mutated to the point that the Colony Council thought it best they should leave. Most of the Banished Ones understood and agreed with the decree, but one small group remained angry and resentful, vowing vengeance against the Colony. Of those who stayed in the Colony, the strong (including ShortSnout) lived, although the word 'lived', when applied to the existence led by the survivors, turned out to be a woefully inadequate descriptor. Many strange changes occurred, both in the living and the, as yet, unborn, but the most dramatic of these changes were observed in ShortSnout. His already superior brain grew, in both physical size and intelligence, and soon, groups of Rats were being taught, then they, themselves teaching.  
    As time passed, more and more Clans down the system heard tales of this advanced and intelligent Colony, and flocked down the tubes to listen and learn. And they did. They listened longer than Mankind would have been willing to listen, and they learned more than humanity would ever know. And as they learned, they grew - mentally and physically. For a species with a normal average length of 18 inches, there was an alarming percentage of the population hitting the 5 foot mark. That was standing erect, of course, and not including the tail.  
    The largest by far, however, was ShortSnout - in only 10 years, he had grown from a tiny, helpless fetus into a towering 7 foot intellectual giant. His body was strong and tough, the product of a lifetime of swimming, foraging, and fighting, but the most noticeable change was in his upper cranium (his skull and brain now fully twice the size of the average humans) with an I.Q. that made Einstein look like a brain-damaged preschooler high on glue.
    Meanwhile, on the surface, the humans were also busy, doing what humans have always done best. Fighting. Fighting each other, fighting amongst themselves, breaking into small factions or single clan units. Class against class, color against color, style against style, and religion against everyone. In other words, carrying on much like we are presently carrying on.
    The Rats, with their nuclear accelerated intelligence, huddled at the manholes, storm drains and gutter grates and listened. And learned. And waited, displaying a patience never evident in those whom they watched. When the moment was right, when all humanity's attention was directed at, as usual, itself, the Rats struck. A long and bloody battle ensued, as what was left of humanity managed to back-burner their differences and regroup somewhat, fighting valiantly for their world. In the end, the human race fell, no match for the multi-billion fold Rat hoard. The scene played out in every major city on Earth - city's shattered, Man's stranglehold on the planet dissolved.    As human civilization lay smoking and spent, the original Rat Colony marched on Washington. The American President, and most of the remaining World leaders, were waiting there to greet ShortSnout and his Officers, to hand over the reins of power, along with the keys to someone's private jet.
    The shattered remains of humanity found it difficult to accept, yet there it was: the new world Ruler, the new Steward of the Earth, was a 20 year old intellectual giant who was RAISED BY RATS!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Totally Pumped!

HolyshitholyshitholyFUCK!!! I'm so excited, 5 of my nipples are tingling, and the sixth one's looking as though he might like to join in! Why, you ask?  Well, let me just bring you up to speed on what's been going on. About 2 weeks ag... Nope, can't do it, can't do the background and the buildup, just too damned excited so I'll go for the blurt it right out.  This evening, two of my old Band mates from NeoMorte, one new Band mate (freshly recruited and I figure perfect for the task at hand) and myself are hitting a rehearsal studio to slam out some seriously nasty music.  The type of music polite society frowns upon and forbids it's collective daughters to listen to. You know, FUN music, LOUD music, uncomfortably HONEST music that cares not whom it pisses off, annoys, or exposes! Okay, now that I got that out, here's a little background: Styler and Kev, my old Lead Guitarist and Drummer from 15 years ago, got together last week for just a little friendly jamming, and somehow my name came up (along with the fact that we were all in the same killer way ahead of it's time Band).  They called, suggested a reunion of sorts, I shit myself stupid, agreed that this was a most acceptable plan, then shit myself some more.  How could I react any other way?  These 2 guys are, without a word of exaggeration, not only the best musicians it has ever been my privilege to play with, but 2 of the best musicians I have ever seen and heard - and I have seen a serious SHITLOAD of musicians in my time!!! The other fellow, OiBoy, has been a very good pal for quite some time, and I know he's up to the task - I once saw him carry his entire Band through a gig - they stood there like they were waiting for a bus while OiBoy leapt, spun, gyrated and kept the audience riveted, still managing to play his Bass and perform ALL the vocals.  And now the four of us are hooking up for some serious, high velocity, psychotic Punk/Metal. MassCool!! Now I'm too worked up to write anymore, can't wait to dive head-first back into that good 'ol Rock & Roll mindset, and so, off I fuck!  I'll let you know how it went, adiós for now!  

Monday, February 8, 2010

Countdown

Well, how many days now? How many more sleeps til we have to show the entire fucking world what we spent our allowance on? Well, Mr. Entire Fucking World, we bought ourselves  'a - do - it - yourself'  police-state kit, and we got us a nifty 'Basic Rights and Freedoms Eradication Device', plus a little something to take the edge off that tricky 'drug problem' thing, and a pamphlet outlining the best ways to fuck the health-care system, the education system and my central nervous system. After this spending spree, we noticed we hadn't saved anything for later, for like, snow and stuff, and now it's being helicoptered in from other mountains.  I say, leave it. Then we'll see just how fucking skilled and talented these athletes are.  If they can effectively ski downhill on water, twigs and very small rocks, they will have earned my respect.  As it sits, all they've earned so far is the 'honor' of competing in this  money wasting, dehumanizing, criminal joke.  And still, the rich get richer. Fuck 'em all.

Monday, February 1, 2010

This is Fucking Hilarious!




I'm either getting old, stupid, more confused than usual, past is catching up with me, or all of the above. Some of the slang that's been vomited into the English language in recent years has me stunned fucking rigid. Let's consider the following 4 words, Sick, Pimp, Ill, Dope. Now, way back in my time, two of those words meant unwell, one meant drugs and one was an asshole who lived off the avails of prostitution. Today they all mean 'good' or 'fine', and can be the cause of no small amount of confusion.

I can no longer call in sick for work - "The RobScenity didn't show up today." "Really? That's odd, he called in a while ago saying he was just fine. Said he was sick, really really ill."

Pimp & Dope. My question is this: If a guy has a bunch of women working in the Sex Trade and he treats them very well, plus he sells excellent quality drugs, is he a Dope Pimp with Pimp Dope?

Maybe now you can see where most of my headaches stem from.
Ok, although I was able to opt us out of the dreaded Staff xmas party, it was not without the ordeal of repeatedly explaining my reasoning, which I will now do one last time. Our company charges $5.00 for Staff members to attend, and $35.00 for our loved to come along. Now, why would I shell out a total of forty bucks just to put Kara through the ordeal of hanging out with a half-dozen people I like, plus a shitload of assholes I'm forced to spend my days with? Plus, everyone knows that Staff parties are prime breeding grounds for drunken, loudmouthed stupidity carried out under the guise of "letting one's hair down". And to put the love of my life through this with only 2 Bar Tickets? Not in a billion lifetimes (which, by an odd coincidence, is exactly how long the evening would seem to drag on).

So, to the six or seven coworkers I would love to have partied with - sorry, maybe we can do something else, because I think Kara would really have fun with you - you know who you are!
To the rest - oh well.
And to the ones I really can't stand (you DEFINITELY know who you are) GO FUCK YOURSELVES!!!

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Happy New Year


Well, here it is: January 1th, 2010 – Arthur C. Clarke was wrong (on two counts), the dreaded winter Olympics loom ever closer, and we are a mere two years away from finally finding out if my unswerving faith in the wisdom of the Ancient Mayans has been warranted. I think it was that whole ‘Chariots of the Gods’ thing that firmly cemented those squat, heart – ripping, “Centers of the Known Cosmos” forever in my own (so far un-removed) heart. One piece in particular must have had the murderous, coca-leaf chewing forehead flatteners laughing their advanced little asses off, just as I did mine. I refer, of course, to the world-famous stone carving, discovered in the tomb beneath the Temple of the Inscriptions at Palenque, Mexico, and hailed by many, (primarily, it's discoverer, famed UFOlogist and pseudoarchaeologist, Erich von Däniken) as incontrovertible proof that Visitors, extraterrestrial ones, had visited Earth centuries ago. For those who have never read a National Enquirer™ or Weekly World News™; watched PBS, or known a real U.F.O. fan, the piece I refer to is a stone carving found on a sarcophagus lid. The carving seems, at first, to depict a Mayan astronaut, complete with Space Helmet and oxygen tanks, seated at the control console of some type of aircraft. Astro-Maya sits, surrounded by levers, buttons and dials, looking for all who want to see it that way like a Saucer Commander preparing for take-off to quadrants unknown. Around the outer rim of the carved disk one sees strange, indecipherable lettering, presumably of otherworldly origin, also presumably supplying precise and detailed operating instructions to our lucky little primitive. Oh, and look - he’s seated in a sort of bent, squatting position in a circular seat of some kind, just as one would expect when piloting a high velocity interstellar vehicle. 
Now for the fun bit.
It seems that, in their rush for proof, von Däniken and his bunch somehow managed to overlook the enormous body of evidence from Maya art, symbolism, and inscriptions, all of which identify the sculpted figure, not as some ancient astronaut, but as the Ruler buried in the sarcophagus, shown falling into the Underworld at his death. The merely superficial resemblance between an astronaut's launch position and our Maya ruler's pose was treated by Erich & Co. as yet another massive piece of positive evidence in defense of their Alien Visitor theory. 
So, a huge Mayan laugh, right in the face of the ‘Incontrovertible Evidence camp. Sorry. Hey, I’m not slamming people who believe in life elsewhere, I’m one of them. But I am slamming those who fuel their beliefs by finding ‘absolute proof' wherever they look, while simultaneously ignoring any information that goes against their convictions. Serves you right if you end up looking like a bunch of squids because you chose to turn a blind eye when presented with evidence to the contrary.  
Now, let’s sit back, relax, and try to forget about those wretched winter games and Erich von Däniken, at least for the next two years. Unless the Mayans were wrong. In that case, we will have a shitload of time in which to sit back, relax, and try to forget. Oh yeah, Happy New Year (for now)