Tuesday, September 1, 2015


Time is for the bourgeois, baby. We’ve got the moment.

—Ed Sanders, The Family, 1971


The news here in the capital has been disturbing of late. I refer of course to the enclosed newspaper clipping entitled, “Police Arrest Woman With Cocaine Breast Implants.” Let me be the first and hopefully last to assure you that, contrary to various reports laid thick with malice and innuendo, this woman and her narcotically-enhanced bosom were not en route to this embassy.  Believe me when I say that I understand the implications and extreme sensitivity of the situation, given what happened here three years ago with a certain junior ex-consul who shall not be named. We are doing our best to keep a tight leash on the press regarding the specific details. It is unclear what this woman may or may not be telling local law enforcement, but you should know that I have deployed field agents to make sure whatever she says will be (a) as little as possible and (b) easily discredited.

As for the second clipping, “Man Jailed For Causing Terror With Dildo.”  The man in question is, sadly—but to absolutely no one’s surprise—a US citizen. His court-appointed attorney has already made contact with the consulate. We are doing what can be done. Which, as you can imagine in a case like this, is very little indeed.  Perhaps a few days or weeks in a cell staffed by the jackbooted thugs currently in the employ of the police apparatus here will prompt our friend to reconsider the perils of dildo terror.

Which brings me to our next item, sir: Apparently the heavy metal band GWAR is planning a concert here next month. As you may or may not know, this musical troupe originates from Richmond, VA, and costumes themselves as degenerate sex monsters from outer space. Their leader, one Mr. David Brockie, a.k.a. “Oderus Urungus” has been known to wield a two-foot phallus that fires neon-green semen into the audience. I don’t need to tell you how this might be received in the capital, sir. The band is also notorious for staging mock executions of celebrities and elected officials. And though I realize we use the term “elected officials” tenuously in reference to our local policy makers, this fact in no way mitigates how a mock execution might be interpreted by the “elected officials” in question. Any input or suggestions you might have vis-à-vis this scenario would be most welcome, lest we avoid a most unpleasant international incident.

Of course I would be amiss if I did not give an update on the most pressing issue here in the capital as far as this consulate is concerned. I refer to the attached clipping, “Nazi-Acquired Buddha Statue Came From Space.” As the article notes, the statue in question is known as “Iron Man” to researchers and was carved from “a rare class of space rocks known as ataxite meteorites.” The Iron Man is 9.5 inches tall, weighs roughly 23 pounds and is nearly a thousand years old. It is the “only known illustration of a human figure to be carved into a meteorite.” In other words, sir, it is priceless. Our field agents are currently assembling a plan to make sure it does not fall into the hands of our enemies, if you get my meaning.  

Last but not least, I will refer you to the fourth and final clipping, entitled “Stripper Turned Minister Claims Rapist Demons Make You Gay.” I’ve included this one purely for your amusement, sir. She’s obviously adopted a stage name for professional purposes, but the woman in question was a former candidate for the US Senate. Unfortunately, there’s no photograph included in the article, but I trust you can guess who I am referring to.

Good day, sir.

T. Cullen Blackstone

Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States to [Redacted] 

This bullshit originally appeared in the February 2014 issue of Decibel magazine. 

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

This Time, It's Personal

A Selection Of Classifieds From Around The Metal Universe

Remember that one time at the AC/DC concert?  Boston Garden, ’83. Flick Of The Switch tour You: Gorgeous mullet, cigs rolled up in sleeve of your Flick Of The Switch tour shirt. Me: Petit blonde w/ teased bangs, TIGHT stonewashed jeans w/ holes in both knees, Flick Of The Switch tour shirt w/ sleeves already cut off cuz I hid scissors in my purse! It’s been 30 years, but I think about you every day.  If you still live in the New England area, let’s get together & talk about old times. And maybe do some other stuff. I’m a masseuse now, if you know what I mean. Call Trish at 617.555.HOTT

Dude, how much for that Tools Of The Trade longsleeve? You were rocking that thing hard outside the Carcass show at Reggie’s last month. It had like five or six holes in it, including that big one just under the collar, but I’ve never even SEEN that shirt in a longsleeve before. Not sure if it’s a bootleg or what, but get at me if you’re interested in selling, dude.  I’ll pay top dollar. Email Ryan at iheartjeffwalker@yahoo.com. (I also play guitar.) 

Record store romance?  Saw you at Vacation Vinyl in L.A. last week arguing with the clerk while I was perusing the “Unholy Metal” section. Thought it was cute the way you told the resident longhair (in the pink Oxford!) that picture discs are the truest Cannibal Corpse listening experience. I was too shy to talk to you, but would love to meet up next time. I usually stop by on Tuesdays to check out the new releases. Recognize me by my red Docs and Tomb Of The Mutilated back patch! 

You call your metal black. Saw your band at Rendezvous last Thursday. You’re a killer drummer, but the rest of those dummies are a bunch of corny little girls trying to get up on some man action. And their corpsepaint style is whack. If you wanna ditch those homos and join a REAL black metal band, hit me up: Randy from Goat Puncher. We’re strictly TRVE KVLT. Also, if you and/or your mom have a garage or basement we could practice in, that would be tits. 

Desperately seeking John Christ’s 1983 B.C. Rich Bitch or one just like it. Will trade a pair of ’88 Air Jordans (used) or a pit bull. Cleveland area only. Call Chris: 216.555.5555

Attention MAIDEN FANS: Wiltshire-area man fancies special lady for fun and possible relationship. Must be slim, attractive, age 25-40.  Thrilled to discuss your love of first two Maiden albums & Maiden Japan. Get in touch with Paul for drinks & extracurricular. Fans of Blaze or Other Guy -eras need not apply. EFF BRUCE BRUCE. 

Desperately Seeking Studly: We totally hooked up in the parking lot after the UDO show in Miami Beach last month. Never got your digits and kicking myself for it now! Me: Handlebar mustache, 28-inch biceps, slightly tipsy, singing “Princess Of The Night” to no one in particular.  You: Handlebar mustache, Scorpions tee, huge armadillo in your trousers if you catch my meaning. I’m always at the Cockpit on Friday nights—swing by and I’ll buy you a drink!

WANTED: Live goat for use in ritual to persuade almighty lord Lucifer to help get my ride back from those smug butt-holes at Henderson Auto, who repo’d my baby after I was like three days late on like four payments, maybe five. And also to strike them down or smite them or whatever is most convenient for his Satanic Majesty, whom I realize has a busy schedule. Will not harm goat. 

This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2014 issue of Decibel Magazine

Friday, October 10, 2014

Satan Ruined My Life

I’ve made a huge fucking mistake. Randy and Bobby hatched this big plan to burn down St. Mary’s in the name of GOATPUNCHER and Satan and all that is unholy but it went horribly, horribly wrong.

It all started by the lockers between Social Studies and Phys Ed. Randy said it was high time we took GOATPUNCHER to the next level and showed those creeps in Corpse Hammer who’s boss around here. GOATPUNCHER is fucking boss, he says. Which we all pretty much knew deep down in our heart of hearts. Even though Bobby was questionable.  When he and Randy had that fight about the infamous missing Darkthrone longsleeve, Bobby split for like two whole weeks and started hanging out with the Corpse Hammer dudes and the rumor was that he even tried out for the band at one point. Which was never confirmed, by the way. Definitely not by Bobby, who acts like the whole thing never happened. So like I said, questionable. But Randy was pretty clever with this whole scheme of his because not only was it an opportunity to make the name GOATPUNCHER legend and show those Corpse Hammer homos who’s boss—US, obviously—but it would also kinda make Bobby prove his dedication to the cause or whatever.

The plan was basically this: Suit up in full corpsepaint and spikes and burn down St. Mary’s Church on Halloween night. But we had to make sure we didn’t kill anyone, so it had to go down late night, when all the nuns were back in the convent finger-banging each other to high heaven. We’d done enough to the nuns at this point, anyway—they pretty much all hated us. And that was just for being mouthy little shits in class. They didn’t even know that we were the ones who stole their industrial-strength bras off the convent clothesline so we could hang them from our mic stands for that epic gig at the VFW last year.

We mapped the whole thing out meticulously. Randy even built a model of the church and the entire grounds—the refectory, the parking lot, everything. We had the timing down and everything. The beauty of it was that we could do the job without ever going inside the church if need be. And on the off-chance that the doors were actually unlocked, we could build a pile of Christian newsletters and Stryper albums on the altar and just torch the fucking place from the inside out.

So October 28th rolls around and things are looking up. It’s a full moon, so I figure we need a symbolic gesture to set the tone for the big night. An effigy for good luck or whatever.  Mom’s out of town so I haul Randy’s church model into the kitchen, belt out a quick prayer to the almighty Lucifer, and set the fucking thing on fire. Of course that’s right when Mom calls to check in on me. Invoke Satan and Mom calls—story of my life, right? Anyway, I can’t get a decent signal in the house so I go outside to talk and she starts asking me about did I clean my room, did I do the dishes, did I mow the fucking lawn like she asked?  This goes on for like 15 minutes. And I totally forget about the fire, dude. By the time I get off the phone, half the kitchen is in flames. I dragged the hose inside and managed to douse it before the whole house went up, but the kitchen is seriously charred to shit now. I’m talking like a scorched-earth scenario. Plus, it’s kinda waterlogged. The floor and counters are pretty much ruined and the whole place smells like shit. Mom is going to be fucking PISSED. She’s probably gonna send me to Des Moines to live with Dad, and Des Moines is fucking LAME, dude. 

My first instinct was to offer up another prayer to Satan, but then I got to thinking that’s kinda what got me into this mess to begin with. So I don’t know, dude. I hate to say it, but maybe the nuns are onto something with this whole Jesus thing. Is that even possible? Fuck. I’ve gotta re-think my entire existence now. Thanks a lot, Satan. You prick.

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2013 issue of Decibel magazine.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Mustache Ride

From the official minutes of the 2nd annual Broward County Death Metal Convention & Symposium, held in Plantation, Florida, on August 23-25, 2013

Friends, fans, enemies…


With this many people here, you know we’ve got enemies in the room!

[Nervous laughter]

Nah, I’m kidding! 

[Audible sighs of relief]

First off, I want to welcome you all to the second annual Broward County Death Metal Convention & Symposium at the La Quinta Inn and Suites here in scenic downtown Plantation. Thank you all for being here on the opening night!  Now, don’t forget we’ll have complimentary microwave burritos and Mountain Dew available in the lobby from 9 to 9:15 tomorrow morning. Then the real festivities kick off at noon with the air guitar competition, Cannibal Corpse Karaoke, the Karl Sanders look-alike contest and of course, tomorrow night, the Hoffman Brothers bench-press/squat thrust tutorial followed by Holy Deception, Broward County’s finest Deicide cover band!

[Polite applause]

But tonight we’re gathered to talk about an important topic: Death metal outerwear.


We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the next four hours, what with camo pants, camo shorts, denim shorts, high tops, athletic socks—all the way through band shirts, leather jackets, denim vests, cut-offs and longsleeves. But first I wanna start things off with what I feel, on a personal level, are the most important accoutrements on the docket tonight: Sweatpants and mustaches.


Notice I didn’t say sweatpants OR mustaches…

[Riotous applause]

[Laughs] Right! Because while you can certainly have one without the other—and here I nod in deference to our brothers in arms who are unable to grow mustaches; they live in what I like to call Peach Fuzz Purgatory, hahaha… But of course the mustache/sweatpants combo is always preferable. Just ask our special guest speakers tonight: Rick Rozz and Will Rahmer!


You know Rick as the prime shredder in Massacre, and of course as an early member of Death, going back as far as the Mantas days…

[Louder applause]

Yeah, yeah—I know. Incredible pedigree on this guy. And you’ve seen the photos of Rick from back in those days. Classic death metal ’stache—classic Floridian moose knuckle, too!


I kid, I kid. Now, as many of you know, Rick has been clean-shaven in recent years. But I’m here to tell you—spoiler alert!—that he’s rocking the ’stache again, and he’s gonna debut it here for you guys tonight!

[Riotous applause]

Now, our second guest speaker, as I mentioned, is Will Rahmer. You know him from Mortician, of course—Yonkers’ finest!—and for those of you with a little more, shall we say, underground tastes… yeah, you know what I mean… he’s also the mastermind behind the almighty Prosthetic Cunt!


Now listen, guys—one stipulation with Will, okay? No questions about the Polish incident. You know, the alleged “stealing a taxi at knifepoint” scenario or whatever. Alleged scenario. That was almost ten years ago at this point and Will doesn’t wanna talk about it. He’s here to talk mustaches and sweatpants and if you wanna ask Mortician questions of course that’s cool. I know we’re all curious what the status of the new album is!  But the Q&A session will be cut short if anyone brings up the Polish thing, so don’t spoil it for the rest of us, okay?  

[Murmurs, nods]

And to be honest with you it came up in the Green Room earlier, someone mentioned it, I won’t say who, and Will was totally cool about it. As it turns out, the Polish authorities made way less of an ordeal out of the whole thing—alleged thing—than you might think. But Will explained to me that he just doesn’t wanna talk about it publicly. So, yeah: You guys know the drill from last year, anyway, when we had Phil from Malevolent Creation up here to talk about Slurpee etiquette and other convenience-store protocols.

[Murmurs, nods]

Okay, cool, cool. I know I can depend on you guys. So without any further what-have-you, let me bring out our first guest. Guys, give a big hand to Mr. Rick Rozz! And guys, wow, let’s hear it for that amazing mustache, am I right?

[Riotous applause]

This bullshit originally appeared in the November 2013 issue of Decibel magazine.  

Thursday, May 29, 2014

The Cosmic Significance Of Orange Underwear

It’s been a strange month. First, the Zimmerman verdict. Oof. Then the Rolling Stone cover-controversy, an inane beef trumped up by sanctimonious crazies and hypocritical corporations across the country. Then milk shoots out of several million British tits as the royal baby emerges from the semi-royal vajayjay. Meanwhile, our man Dennis Fucking Farina sails off into the Great Beyond, a mere two days after I watch him rape and torture a bunch of teenage girls with incandescent thespian Billy Zane in the 1989 TV-movie tour-de-force, The Hillside Stranglers. (Dick Crenna, of Rambo and The Flamingo Kid fame, stars as the drunken cop who takes them down while banging a potential witness on the side. Highly recommended.) Of course, our old friend Varg Vikernes was also hauled out of bed in his orange undies by the French police this month, arrested for terrorism alongside his pregnant wife. They’re released in less than 36 hours.

If we consulted the stars, I’m sure we would discover that these events are inherently linked. Something in Zimmerman’s astrological chart probably says that it’s okay for him to be on the cover of every newspaper in the country but it’s fucking unforgivable to put the Chechen bomber kid on the cover of Rolling Stone. Similarly, something in Farina’s chart probably dictated that he had to buy out in order for the royal baby to buy in. It’s like the end of The Big Lebowski: Donnie dies, but Maude and the Dude have a little Lebowski on the way. Or something like that.  So how does our boy Varg fit into the cosmic picture? The terrorism seems like an obvious link, if you discount the fact that the police seemed satisfied that Varg and his wife aren’t actually terrorists. Could it be the racism? The Zimmerman trial was nothing if not racially charged, and Varg is a notorious bigot. But no—I’m pretty sure that’s not it, either.  I’m almost positive it was the orange undies.

Varg went out of his way to mention them in his three-part blog post after the arrest. In fact, he dedicated an entire awesome paragraph to his orange undies: “Sorry to digress, but sometimes when you buy underwear you get three underpants in one package, and for some reason at least one of these are always in some horrible colour, and of course I was wearing such a pair of underpants on Thuesday [sic] morning. A pair of strikingly orange underpants. Having been repeatedly dragged out into the street or prison hallways or similar in my underwear before, by the Norwegian police or prison guards, I thought to myself that this was going to repeat itself and I would be photographed with my little belly, my thin hair, my tanned arms in great contrast to my pale body and — wearing horribly orange underpants. (Everybody would believe that I was actually Dutch…)”

Varg’s undies are paramount to tying the events of this past month together. And not just because they serve as surrogate for the orange jumpsuit that Zimmerman was mysteriously not wearing at his bond hearing, unlike just about every other defendant in recent Floridian bond-hearing history. The primary reason is this: I was wearing orange undies—and nothing else—when I was watching The Hillside Stranglers on TV and definitely not eating cookies and smoking weed two nights before Dennis Farina died. And I was wearing them for the same reason that Varg was wearing them when he was arrested: There’s always that one horrible color in the three-pack. You gotta wear ’em sometime. Especially when something big is about to happen.

This bullshit originally appeared in the October 2013 issue of Decibel magazine.