Notable Dudes That Been Here and Still Here: Jay Cutler, Jimmy Clausen, David Fales

New Dude of Note: Shane Carden (Rookie from East Carolina)

25 Year Legacy Top 5: (EXPLANATION: 25 years is a nice, round number, and I’m pretty sure my football mind came  online enough to really know what was going on in like 1989, so starting the time-frame here in 1990 is damn near a perfect “lifetime” list, plus 1990 is another nice, round number. And who doesn’t like nice, round things? Anyway, here are the five best dudes according to me since 1990.)
Jay Cutler (2009-now), Erik Kramer (94-98), Kyle Orton (05-08), Jim Harbaugh (87-93), Jim Miller (99-02)

25 Year Anti-Legacy Bottom 5: (EXPLANATION: same as above, but bad.)
Henry Burris (2002), Jonathan Quinn (2004), Rick Mirer (1997), Caleb Hanie (09-11), Todd Collins (2010) – Really, I could have done a top 35 here if I wanted to suffer.

Best Football Card I Currently Own: (CLARIFICATION: Card can be of any player from history, but only if they’re depicted as a Bear. Even in anarchy, you gotta have rules.) 1992 Pro Line Profiles Autographs Jim Harbaugh

Fantasy Bootleg Jersey: (EXPLANATION : This is an idea blatantly stolen from Raven Mack, dating back to the Confederate Mack zine days, because anciently-scholastic is a good way through which things are often kicked. But if I had $35, plus whatever shipping from China would be, this is an NFL jersey I’d get from a shady-ass bootleg site, sticking mainly to ideas that wouldn’t be allowed by NFL.com on a real, legit, legalized jersey. This assumes I wouldn’t need the $35 for electricity or something, but work with me here.)
It would take some doing and perhaps some ingenuity and seamstressmanship, because even before the NFL started cracking down on bootleg jersey sites, none of them were SO bootleg that they’d let you have a three-digit number, but basically, this:


And since this is a fantasy we’re talking about, maybe have it in the way 90s store-bought jerseys were, where you’d have alternate black versions for teams that didn’t have black anywhere in their normal colors. (Y’all did know that’s navy blue and not black, right?) Hey hey, worship Satan everyday, kids.

Preebok Ebay Jersey: (EXPLANATION: Back in the day, before Roger Goodell ruined football with exclusive contracts for everything and said that only Reebok (and now only Nike) could make official stuff, (and starting next year, only Panini can make NFL trading cards, meaning more more Topps shits that go back to 1955, meaning I haven’t bought a pack of cards since 2013) more than one company could make NFL jerseys, meaning they literally cost about a third of what they’ll run you now. So the 1990s were a decade awash from sea to shining sea in replica jerseys, because they were only 35-50 bucks, depending on whether you got a fancy Starter jersey or a Logo Athletic one, where the numbers would disintegrate after one washing. Now, a fancy new Nike replica will run you something like $120-170, meaning that pro jerseys are the sole domain of uppity  white people who ruin the whole thing by exclusively getting jerseys of the white tight end or a white offensive lineman, because I guess getting the QB makes you a poser, and they don’t be reppin’ no thugs. Then, they ruin it further by tucking their jerseys in pants pulled up to their nipples to look like a goddamn giant toddler, huddled in the stupid “man caves” they had to build, because they married women they don’t even like. The funny part though, is that now thanks to the artificially-inflated prices of the real things, you can’t watch an NFL game without the official NFL cameras panning over a crowd full of obvious bootleg jerseys. But yeah, anyway, these are old replica jerseys of a bygone time that I’d buy off Ebay today if I had the money.)
My first choice here would be an old Erik Kramer jersey, but I actually still have one of those that would still be in good enough condition to wear if I hadn’t got it a size smaller than what would be ideal, followed by  gaining like 40 pounds in the 20 years since. Life is hard. Anyway, Tecmo Super Bowl III remains the greatest football video game of all time, so I’d complete the set on 1995 Tecmo Bear QBs and go with a Steve Walsh #4.



Jay Cutler is a weird thing to think about in an historical context. Because currently, as things stand right now and motherfucking today, he’s not good, and he never will be. He’s been a Bear since 2009 and an NFL starting QB since Bronco times in 2007, and we’re STILL asking whether or not this will finally be the year he “gets it” and delivers on the promise that rat-faced anus-mouthed slave-driver Mike Shanahan saw in him back in ’06. And it’s never gonna happen, you guys. He will never be completely horrible, but he’ll never get much (if any) better than he is right now. He’s an uncoachable, above-it-all prick that teammates just sort of have to endure, because he’s the quarterback. Like as soon as any Bear joins another team, even if it’s his Denver football brother Brandon Marshall, they’re like “hoo boy, lemme tell ya about THAT guy,” and sports writers get another solid two days of tabloidy headlines. And since him and his vapid, useless, reality show wife are anti-vaxxers, he’s not even allowed to attend family-type team functions anymore, because the other 52 players don’t want their shitty little kid spreading parvo to everybody.

And man, that’s a thing, right there. So a guy who’s supposed to be the default leader of the team pretty much got voted out of associating with the rest of the team, just because Jay and Kristen are a couple of dopes who can look a highly-trained medical specialist in the eye and say, “well, you raise some interesting arguments, but Jenny McCarthy was famous for having tig ol’ bitties back in 1993, so we’re gonna go with her ideas.” (And don’t even tell me that there’s some genuine medical concern and first-hand research going on with these two specific people, instead of the weird McCarthy celebrity-cult thing going on. It’s a lifetime-pampered football player and a professional game show contestant we’re (I’m) talking about. I doubt they even know how to use Google.) And while I can appreciate the courage of flaunting the tigness of one’s bitties back in a time when Hollywood was all about Callista Flockheart-styled 8 year old anorexic boy body types, it’s not grounds to consider her one of the leading minds of the new century, 20 years later. Of course, not that the situation there has gotten any better, where every review of a movie with her cousin Melissa McCarthy (where she can only get cast as a female Paul Blart stumble bum) has to mention what a “courageous performance” it was, because the movie industry literally considers it an act of bravery to leave the house weighing more than 130 pounds, and you can still probably find articles being written today referring to Scarlett “Scarjo” Johansson and Jennifer “J-Law” Lawrence as “big girls.” Which is bullshit, because they’re both skinny as hell in real life,  and double bullshit, because “Jay Law” and “Scar Joe” were the names of the two main characters in the post-apocalyptic cop buddy action story I’ve been working on since I was nine, and now, I have to start over. Once again, Hollywood crushes the dreams of a husky young  boy. But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Jay Cutler is no good, and no one likes him.

Jay+Cutler+Kristin+Cavallari+Kristin+Cavallari+qvf_Lht7npwl“DON’T CAAAAAAARRE”

But the thing is? He’s the best quarterback that the Bears have had in over half a century.  Think about it. The last time the Chicago Football Bears had a full-fledged, sure thing, franchise quarterback was Sid Luckman, and he retired in 1950 and hasn’t been the opening-day starter since 1948. Think about how long ago that was, y’all. Neither of my parents were born yet, and as of last month, I round up to forty. Sid Luckman was born in 1916. That was during World War I.  If he were alive today, he wouldn’t be alive, because he’d have to be a fucking vampire. The last Bear QB to make the Pro Bowl was Jim McMahon 30 years ago, (and he was really just an average QB on a team carried by Walter Payton and the 46 Defense, and who was hurt more than he was healthy) and the last one before him was Billy Wade in 1963. With an occasional blip here and there, like McMahon’s Pro Bowl year in ’85 and Erik Kramer’s completely magical ’95 season, the years between Luckman and Cutler have been a dark, depressing parade of scumbum garbagefuckers who have not done much more than hammer home the point that the Bears are one 1986 Super Bowl win shy of being lumped in with assholes like the Cleveland Browns for long-term hopelessnes. Jay Cutler is the best Bear QB of my lifetime, and hell, he could be the best I’ll ever see by the time I die. (preferably in a huge fireball, because I’d want to die quick and fireballs are awesome to look at) So we will endure another year or two of Smokin’ Cat Jay Shit Ogre Cutler, and know full well that whoever is up next will probably be way, way worse.


As for Jay’s backup, you got weird-lookin’ Jimmy Claussen. Fuck Jimmy Claussen. All he’s ever been good for is making Mel Kiper look bad. But I guess you could do somewhat worse for a backup. Behind him are rookie Shane Carden and David Fales, who’s a one year removed from being a rookie himself. Hopefully, Cutler and Claussen stay healthy enough that neither guy ends up mattering. But there’s no way the Bears keep four QBs on the roster, so one of them has to go by the time the Bears get down to the 53-man limit. So I’m guessing Fales is out, because he was the old coaching staff’s guy. Also, his name sounds like “fails,” and jon Fox’s new coaching staff might be like me and fear a world where Cutler and Claussen go down, and this leads to a bunch of stupid “Epic Fales” headlines on shitty sports blogs. And in a Shane Carden world, I wouldn’t have to listen to anyone groping  around in the darkness for a “Carden-gan Sweater” pun or some shit like that, because I haven’t had cable TV in a long time, meaning that in my world, Chris Berman died in 2003.

NEXT TIME: Eh, who knows.

HEY GUYS…Preview preview preview preview. Preview.

Hi. Welcome to this thing right here. My name isn’t important, but I also don’t want you people knowing it, because you’ll end up stealing my credit card or whatever. If you’re here, I’m guessing you’re either my wife, my mom, a Brazilian search engine optimizing robot, or someone looking for Google-searched images that got tricked into coming here because I inserted the words “naked boobs One Direction torrent Nikki Bella download zombie butts Bieber nipple incest Kardashian” just now and fucked up your search results. Hi, though. While you’re here, you might as well stick around fur a minute and read some words about stuff. I am a nice fellow, and it gets lonely here sometimes. So very lonely.

healthy_snacksIf it helps, I can get some nutritious snacks for us.

But if you’re still here, you should know about me, and you should know about my sickness. I occasionally watch the American Football, as perpetrated by the National Football League, which is terrible, and when I do, I watch the Chicago Bears, which is somehow even worse. And on occasion, I will write a thing or two about them, which should be bad, but all things considered, is probably necessary. Because the world of football OPINIONZ 4 U on the World Wide Web is a terrible place, and it’s only getting worse, because the Internets themselves are getting worse.


Instead of the utopian vision of the late 90s, where this thing would expose us all to a whole new world of new voices and newer and more exciting OPINIONZ, it’s instead closed smooth the fuck down to just a few big time, big money blog portals and news feed aggregator shits, all saying the same things and serving the same masters. Never piss off the sponsors, and A.B.C. – Always Be Contentin’. Keep a steady stream of crap flowing, even if it is truly crap, and the internet world is one of “there’s no new info, so just throw up a ‘Twitter Reacts to _______’ article, because #CONTENT.” There was this one site called Kissing Suzy Kolber, and it was pretty much the best paid and professionalized football site around, until they said the wrong things about Bud Light, the parent company took it down, and all the main dudes peaced out. Now, it’s still there, but it’s seemingly back sliding into more of a generic “Epic Twitter Reactions to Who John Oliver Force-fed Broken Glass This Time, and You’ll Be AMAZED by the Results!” clickbaity bullshit zombie shadow of its former self. Sacrificed at the altar of Almighty Content, just like that fake fetus that those two fake Jesus freaks fake miscarried for their fake YouTube bullshit the other day. And that’s how you know there’s no God right there, because no one was consumed in a fireball of unknown origin as soon as they hit Twitter to brag about how many page views their totally not made-up dead child got. Or just fire-consumed whoever came up with the term “vlog” in the first place. Fuckin’ internet, man. Hail Satan forever. But what was I talking about? Oh yeah.


There was another website bloggity thing that existed for a few years, but you didn’t know about it. It was called Armchair Linebacker, and it was pretty much the NFL OPINIONZ site that the world needed, but neither wanted nor deserved. A bunch of dudes who rooted for different (mostly bad) teams came together to share the pain of NFL addiction, resulting in things like the advent of Pro Football Metaphysics, the true story of Donovan McNabb offering a young fan some special sausage, and earliest written records of the tales of The Great Willie Young. It was wild and free and you never knew when a serious analysis of a team’s third string H-back might veer off into a frank discussion of how primal psychic energies might be affected by codeine cough syrup or some such shit. It was NFL fandom of the most noble and horrible kind, where the normal AM sports talk radio/Pro Football Talk bullshit, all the yelling of team-trademarked slogans in a non-mocking manner, all the “this year is gonna be our year,” all the “(white wide receiver that has no chance of making the team because his only discernible trait is his whiteness) is a BEAST,” that kinda bullshit, was mostly sloughed away, and we tried real hard to avoid dry-ass EXPERT SERIOUS ANALYSIS~! of minute details that are ultimately meaningless, although admittedly, I kinda failed on that point quite a bit. But in the place of the usual crap was a huge ball of horror, a giant, twisted, cancerous mass of sadness that is the result of people having their hearts and guts forcibly ripped from their souls by the modern NFL and a handful of its most hopeless teams. (Well, except that one Patriots guy, who I’m pretty sure didn’t even like football, and was just throwing up dry-ass, quarter-by-quarter breakdowns of games, until the adults ran him off. Apparently, he’s like a modestly big deal in the hip hop internet OPINIONZ 4 U scene now, which, judging by that guy alone, must be in even worse shape than the football side of things. One.) And it was mostly Raven and Neil being awesome (Which can continue to happen, for the low, low price of only $4.20. Seriously, you guys, it is a damn thing, and you’d just spend that money on bullshit anyway.) while a bunch of us stood in the background and grinned real big, but it was a helluva ride. I’m pretty sure I meant to do some big eulogy for the site here, but never got around to it, and probably had more than this to say at the time, but hell, it’s been over three years. There are people alive today that weren’t even born yet in 2012.

ap-bears-lions-football-4_3_r536_c534It was a simpler time; and a time of Jason Campbell.

But anyway, it is in the Armchair Linebacker spirit of oddly hopeful blistering negativity that football is probably gonna take over here for a minute, at least until the Bears finally crush my spirit, which I’m guessing will be around the fifth Green Bay touchdown in week one. And it’s like, yeah, I know football played in the American Corporate Style is bullshit, and it’s bad for you. I know the NFL is a shady, brutal, ruthless purveyor of a blood-soaked death-sport, and the Chicago Bears merely one of its hateful tentacles. It’s a game where destitute twenty-year-olds achieve their dreams of being thirty year old millionaires, only to become addle-brained, penniless cripples by forty, and rarely seem to make it to fifty. And I know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s all just a big waste of time. But goddammit, I need this, and we all do, or at least something like it. Because the world is a horrible place, and it’s not getting any better, and we need silly crap like football or video games or Judge Dredd comics or going on social media to tell people that Voivod records are good and that you should buy them. Without distractions like football, I’d take a look at the world we live in, and I’d try to make a meaningful change, but the problem is that the only way to make any change that would actually change anything would be to rise the fuck up and storm the seats of power – not the government, but the mansions, corporate boardrooms, and exclusive, high-priced Southeast Asian child sex dungeons where the REAL shit goes down, and where governments get their marching orders – to storm them sumbitches with anger and furious violence, and put them and their children under the blade, so that all of us street people could just have jobs and be chill. But the thing is, I don’t like hurting people, even bad people, and even if I did like hurting folks, I’d probably suck at it. Not to mention that most people are convinced that the problems come from single moms and poor immigrants or whatever, so I’d probably be the only one rising up to storm shit and cut people, and it would end in hilarious tragedy. There would be a little blurb in the “Weird World” section of the newspapers no one reads, that would be something like “Insane Oklahoma man killed by savage attack dogs today while prowling the grounds of David Koch’s stately pleasure dome, wielding a rusty bayonet attached to a mop handle, and yelling something unintelligible about future former Chicago Bear, Willie Young.” Hell, I’d probably end up being made an honorary Florida Man. And so on it goes, that we will continue wandering the cursed, smoldering Earth as mindless, hopeless cogs in a Reaganomically-devastated economy, and we will spend our lives as listless schlubs taking orders from egomaniacal failures, and we’ll never be able to retire, because no one can afford that anymore, and we’ll work and work and work until we get old, until our bodies break down and just finally reject themselves completely. And when that happens, blood will spray from our eyes and our bowels, and we’ll scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and die, and there is no escape. So with that in mind?

Chicago's Matt Forte celebrates a touchdown run against the Cincinnati Bengals at Soldier Field on September 8, 2013 in Chicago, Illinois. The Bears defeated the Bengals 24-21. (Photo by Jonathan Daniel/Getty Images)FUUUUUUUCK YEEEEAAAAAAH, FOOOOTBAWWWWWWWWWWW

Anyway, the preseason just started like 15 minutes ago, and I still gotta make dinner. The 2015 Bears season preview, broken up by positions and whatnot, should start dropping soon. Let’s make 2015 a great season, you guys!



Here is a brief clip of ridiculous 80s Satanic metal band Venom totally clowning on ridiculous 80s barbarian metal band Manowar. A dude from the olden days of the internets sent this to me as an mp3 he recorded directly from his cassette version of the full interview (oh man) years ago, so for all I know, this might be some sort of half-assed ~EXCLUSIVE CONTENT~ but I’m willing to guess that if I bothered to do a Google search, I’d find it in like thirty different places. (Oh man, what if someone has the full interview? Maybe I will Google it sometime around 2017.) Either way, it’s silly, and the world needs more of that.

DUUUUUUUUDES Last time on this trilogy of blog posts that’s taken more time to put together than the trip itself, Sarah and I repeatedly made narrow escapes with our lives on the Streets of San Antonio and I rambled on about lucha libre for a while. But now the time has arrived to fully inform you people on the night of the reason for all this hullabaloo, and I’m not going to be cryptically sneaking Iron Maiden lyrics into this one, (You guys noticed that on the first two parts, right? Right?) because this was the night when they were actually there, right goddamn there, all up in my face, being the face that they were desperately trying to rock completely off of my head. A glorious night of heavy metal and explosions and light and sound and glory and explosions and additional explosions. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

The Spurs play there!
I totally took this picture myself, because I can jump real high.

First, we had to get to the building, which started with a whole lot of “oh no, don’t worry about it, we can drive ourselves there, it’ll fine, no really, driving is fine, seriously we mean it,” which led to Sarah’s dad driving us there, which lead to a refresher course in the True Meaning of Ultimate Terror.  Of course, we left pretty early, so no amount of completely inexplicable wrong turns in a straight-line drive down one road could derail our quest to be the lines and get a good spot, right up front, where all the metal was going to happen, with the guitars and the yelling and the explosions and what-have-you. So we got there, and we got in the long-ass line. Awesome. Ten minutes later, oops, that was the wrong line, this one’s not for paperless tickets. So we get in another long-ass line. Ten minutes later, oops, that was the wrong line, this one’s not for general admission. So we get in another long-ass line. Oh hey, this one’s the right line! Oh, but your debit card doesn’t work. So we get in another, albeit much shorter, line and since I am the genius king of men with a smart-ass phone and an email opened up on it right there for all to see with my name and relevant numbers and such-like to show the dude at the ticket resolution counter, BAM, we got tickets all of a sudden. Super great. Of course, all of this running around and getting into the wrong lines and the dude’s card reader being broken because THAT’S TOTALLY A NEW CARD just had to have ruined the whole thing, right? Like the time we lost running around after tickets was going to put us at the back of the arena, behind a giant pillar that’s usually not there for Spurs games, right next to a dude who farts a lot and likes to talk about Ron Paul, right? HA!

Where's Baldo?Here’s a picture from the “tag yourself” section of Iron Maiden’s Facebook page, taken from right in front of the stage, and while I may be mistaken, that tiny sliver of a bald head that the arrow is pointing to may very well be my head. Can’t be too sure, but I distinctly remember the dude in the hat being directly in front of me and a little to my right. Or for a better view of how things were, here’s this picture of Maiden’s crew clearing all of the opening act’s crap off the stage:

WE ARE THE ROADCREW, DUH-NUH-NAH-NUH-NAH-NAAHHSomehow, we ended up dead center, maybe forty feet or so back, and I had a pretty nice view of pretty much everything. Sadly, I had to specify myself in that last sentence, because Sarah’s pretty much a tiny little Hobbit person, and any situation where people end up standing in front of her is not going to be a good one for looking at things. In a weird sort of way, this worked out okay in the end, because as a Halfling, she had to use her phone’s camera pretty much as a digital periscope to see over everybody, and we ended up with a whole bunch of footage of the show as a result. And since it was done to serve the practical purpose of her actually being able to occasionally see Bruce Dickinson, all that footage doesn’t come with the attached shame of being the asshole at the show who’s got their phone up the whole time, barely paying attention to anything but the phone itself, because MUSHT THE FIRSHT TO GET THEIR VIDEOSH UP ON THE YOUTBUESH SHHHHHHHHTTTBBBTTTTHHHH *fart*. But yeah, somehow, we ended up with decent seats, aside from the part where there were no seats, because we were in the section that wasn’t for pussies, pussy. Then, after maybe another thirty minutes or so, stuff happened.

Here’s Coheed and Cambria’s stage setup. I didn’t take any pictures of the actual band because I was temporarily DEAD.  Dead from BOREDOM.

The problem with an Iron Maiden show is that somehow, they feel that they aren’t enough by themselves and insist on taking along an opening act. And it’s a fairly common thing for a band to be a band that no one else can follow, but Maiden has reached a level where they’re a band that you can’t even precede. I think Henry Rollins did a whole bit on this back in the day, and it’s completely true: There’s no such thing as an opening band at an Iron Maiden concert. The bands playing at Iron Maiden shows in the period of time before Maiden themselves take the stage are merely extended interruptions, obstacles to what everyone is actually there for. If you’re opening for Iron Maiden and are not of equal or greater legendary status , (Like the earlier shows on this tour, who got Alice freakin’ Cooper, instead of this bunch of buncocky that we had to sit through.) the night is not going to go well for you. So while I had previously heard a little bit of Coheed and Cambria’s stuff and fully, completely disliked it, I was ready to feel sorry for them for what I knew was going to end up happening. And yeah, for maybe a few minutes of their boring douche-prog, as I watched their best efforts to rock out met with motionless silence by the Maiden crowd, yeah, I did kind of feel bad for them. Because yeah, they sucked, but they were playing their asses off, and I suppose they suck in a way that’s got to appeal to somebody, or they wouldn’t have become a big enough deal to get on this tour, you know? Then, some bullshit happened.

YOU'RE ALL FOOLSIn what I’m pretty sure was calculated to be the moment where my Heavy Metal Grinch heart was supposed to grow three sizes and let love open the door to my heart for Coheed and Cambria, they busted out into a cover of the Dio-era Black Sabbath classic “Heaven and Hell.” But man, here’s the thing. I know a tiny little guy who sings songs about rainbows and dragons and stuff like that is a thing that probably lends itself well to parody, and I’m sure that the unflattering impression of him that Coheed’s singer can apparently do of Ronnie James Dio was probably pretty funny and entertaining at some point. But you see, once a guy dies, it’s not quite so fucking funny anymore, and especially not fucking funny when you’re using it as some sort of misguided tribute. And it was at that point, as I stood there, wearing my goddamned Dio t-shirt and watching that Polamalu-looking turd switch from his usual high-pitched “Geddy Lee, but if Geddy Lee was an even worse singer than Geddy Lee” vocal style to something that could have only been a “ha ha, let’s make fun of Dio” voice, complete with weird and whacky facial expressions, because guys, heavy metal is such a stupid and comical thing, am I right, building full of tens of thousands of Iron Maiden fans? Ugh. And I know I wasn’t the only one who thought this, because as I looked around, the whole place was a sea  disgusted faces, all but literally screaming “I DISAPPROVE OF THIS,” and one dude in front of us actually turned around toward me and bowed down and apologized to my shirt. But man, this was the one moment that truly solidified my opinion of Coheed and Cambria as bullshit forever, and confirmed any preconceived notions I might have had about them as just a bunch of shitty hipsters who had figured out that they were actually really good at playing their instruments, but there was no way to show off doing emo/indie crap, so they reluctantly decided to slum it as something resembling a heavy metal band.  And you know, I really don’t want to get all “Manowar True Metal Forevermore” Guy here, but once a certain segment of the douche bag community discovered that wearing old metal shirts got you way more scene cred at the Dashboard Confessional show than REO Speedwagon shirts did, there have been way too many bands clogging up the scene who clearly have a whole “oh, ha ha ha, look at us, heavy metal music, how QUAINT” thing going on, so really fuck Coheed and Cambria forever; they can go die in a giant tire fire somewhere. Except for the drummer, though. He just looked so genuinely thrilled to be here, like “oh man, guys, look at the drums that I am playing, this is GREAT,” and I can’t hate on a guy who seems so happy to be alive. So they can all die except for him, he can have some cake and a Game Boy or something, because he ruled. Screw the other three guys, though. And I’m gonna take the main guy’s two-necked guitar from him and hide it somewhere, because he somehow managed to make the 12-string half of it sound exactly like the 6-string half, and it was just so unnecessary. But yeah, before the show, I was not a Coheed and Cambria fan; after the show, I officially became a Coheed and Cambria enemy. Also, to whoever came up with their stage setup and lighting and such: Lighting placed above the band is supposed to point down. You got that right, nice. However: Lights placed behind the band need to point up, preferably through smoke for visibility. If lights are placed behind the band and then aimed down at the audience, all they do is shine directly in the audience’s eyes, temporarily blinding us, followed by filling us with the hateful rage of a thousand angry bees. SO YOU DON’T DO THAT. So stupid.

Sean Elliiot had his number retired?

After that, all of their crap was whisked away by the roadies, and almost as if to serve as an apology for the previous half hour or so, the PA system blasted a bunch of old metal/heavier classic rock stuff, like Judas Priest and Deep Purple, while we all waited for the thing we came here for to happen.  It was a pretty uneventful half-hour or so, except for this one big tubbo in a hockey jersey who we overheard responding to someone’s disapproval of the aforementioned “Heaven and Hell” situation with a really nasal-sounding “eh, it’s okay, he’s dead now anyway.” Made me want to fog up his nerd glasses and hang him upside down from something, while I broke all his DVDs of Kevin Smith movies. Sorry, I’m just kind of pent-up about people who can’t appreciate Ronnie James Dio, you know? Speaking of which, going back in time to outside the building before the show started, this older-looking dude in a jean jacket smothered in band logo patches just sort of looked over at me, yelled “RONNIE JAMES” and kept walking, and for some reason, it was the coolest thing ever. Someday, I’m gonna get me a jean jacket and be the old dude at the show who appreciates the younger dude’s shirt. I think I actually have a Sacred Reich patch somewhere already. Anyway, we just stood and chilled for a while, and when all the roadies disappeared, the lights got all weird, and the band’s unofficial real opening act –  a recording of UFO’s “Doctor Doctor” – played, we knew we were about to see some shit. (more…)

www.sfondi-desktop.eu It’s good to know that so far in my nearly thirty-two years, I’ve never had to use the phrase “you should have killed me when you had the chance” in a serious  conversation. Only time will tell, though.

I’ve looked through the search terms that bring people to this here Terrible Violence place, and I’ve learned a few somewhat disturbing things. First, the things people search for are rarely things that truly have anything to do with the actual content of the site. Second, most of the hits are from people just looking for stuff with Google Image Search. Third, even in this SOPAPILLA age, a lot of you are still trolling blogs for your ilegal download needs. Also, a lot of you are looking to illegally download Diabolus in Musica by Slayer, meaning you basically have no taste in Slayer albums. Lastly, WordPress’s  and HostGator’s site stats must filter out anything related to porn and just file it under “unknown search terms,” because I swear to Allah, the last time I ran a site with any sort of traffic, all you sick freaks came looking for was either naked pictures of female pro wrestling personalities, pictures of incest in an endlessly bizarre array of permutations, or ways to make Slipknot masks. And now that I think about it, I’ve probably just quadrupled my traffic by putting all those words into a sentence. So in the interest of creating… interest, I’m now going to just toss out a bunch of words that should ensure my place at the top of the internet food chain: Free download bootleg Mediafire Rapidshare Megaupload torrents Justin Bieber nude spaghetti naked celebrity nipple boobs butts Chuck Norris giant wild hogs Tim Tebow anal Satan hamburger recipes penis. Now, on to step three of my plan, which is profit.

homer - the screamI live right across the street from a school for deaf kids, and you’d think it would be quiet around here, what with all the sign language and all, but you’d be wrong. I swear, every now and then, deaf people must get this urge to just howl like the screams of the damned for no good reason. I bet I’m going to hell just for noticing that.

them's hard timesSo I was thinking about Christmas specials the other day, because apparently I’ve become trapped in some bizarre time warp that keeps me perpetually three weeks in the past, and a thing occurred to me. And that thing is that to the best of my knowledge regarding television Christmas specials for the children, Emmett Otter’s Jug Band Christmas is the grittiest Christmas special, ever. Seriously, I mean it’s not like some sort of gripping blood bath or anything, because after all, it IS a Christmas special, but as far as those things go, that thing gets raw and stays that way.

Like right from the beginning, it’s all about how Emmett and his mom are up to their necks in hard times, all having to work shitty jobs just to barely scrape by, the the point where the only good thing in their lives is that there aren’t any holes in their wash tub. Their wash tub, in a time and place that’s like the late 70s or early 80s in a world where the Prairie Home Companion is more southern and filled with Muppet animals, where an electric washing machine is a thing that has existed for several decades. Their fucking wash tub. And why is this? Because Emmett’s father – a freaking snake oil salesman, for the record – is dead. And they don’t even let you down easy in that cartoon-for-the-children way, where they’re all like, “oh, I wish your father was still here,” and letting you mentally fill in the blanks. No, they straight up say the dude is deceased, gone, buried, six feet under, and he can’t feed his family, because all he’s feeding right now is worms. Mr. Otter is an ex-otter, and his family is screwed, because all he left them was alone. That is some some ill shit for a children’s special, you know?

Anyway, the harsh lessons about the brutality of life don’t stop there, and to encapsulate the middle of the thing in a sentence, Emmett and his mom both want awesome presents for Christmas, but they’re both dirt-ass-poor and can’t afford anything, so Ma Otter hawks Emmet’s toolbox and Emmett punches a hole in the fucking washtub to make a gutbucket, thereby destroying the family’s last remaining sources of income, so they can both try to win the local talent show and win a bunch of money, each without the other’s knowledge. So the ending seems at least semi-apparent, I suppose. Somehow, either Emmett’s jug-band or Ma’s solo act win, or they both win somehow, because they know the true meaning of love and friendship and Christmas and Jesus and Freedom, and everyone goes home happy. Oh wait, no, once the talent show/battle of the bands thing starts, absolutely none of that happens.

So yeah, Ma Otter’s song goes over huge, and so does Emmett’s band, even though the thing they played sounded more like hippie folk music than actual folk music. (Seriously, it sounded like something that should have been playing while Lava lamp looking stuff was projected behind them and a chick with a tie-dyed dress  and a creepily blank stare just danced around, not actually contributing musically. I mean, yeah, there’s already enough heaviness going on where you can’t have them drop some high lonesome shit about dying in a coal mine or whatever, but they could have at least saved that song about barbecue for this part, you know?) But then, these dudes show up who had been hassling the dude who runs the music store in town earlier, and even though they showed up late and technically shouldn’t have been allowed to participate, they get to anyway, because life isn’t fair for anyone, especially Emmett Otter and his mom. And here’s the thing: after all the country and folk and hippie jug bands that have been playing that were all appropriate to the local area, these guys are a rock band. And you know what happens from there? Do they lose, because cheaters never win and good old fashioned music from the heart is better than big-city devil-rock? Is it a tie that comes down to a final showdown, where Emmett and his Mom join forces to show everyone the true meaning of love and friendship and Christmas and Jesus and Freedom? Oh hell no, people, the River Bottom Nightmare Band busts out some crazy song that sounds like the unholy offspring of Deep Purple and Venom, and they blow the good guys smooth the hell off the stage:

So after the big talent show, Emmett and Ma are left with absolutely goddamn nothing, no tool box, no wash tub, and no money for Christmas Presents. Their lives are ruined, and what’s worst, they’ve been ruined by their own mutual betrayal. I mean yeah, there’s eventually a happy ending and all, but when you watch it, you can’t help but think that it got tacked on at the last moment, like Jim Henson realized that mentally destroying whatever percentage of a generation of children had access to HBO at the time wasn’t worth preserving his artistic integrity. But even then, there’s that loose thread out there that the Nightmare dudes were all a bunch of sociopathic borderline criminals who still got to win the talent show and as an ass-kicking rock machine, probably have a brighter future than any mom-and-son jug band that plays the local tavern could ever have. Thirty years later, Emmett probably still lives with his mom, and The Nightmare are sitting in mansions right now, looking at their platinum records and supermodel wives. If anything, the lesson on this show was less about the power of love and family and happiness and more that assholes always finish first, the world is a cruel and terrible place, and no matter how much from the heart your song is, no one will give three-fifths of a damn about it if you don’t have flashing lights and killer riffs.

HAIL SATANHail Satan, kids. Hail Satan.

(For the full joke, just imagine this with a big rasta-colored lightning bolt hitting it)

 So, several months later than originally planned, in a new town, in a new (well, new to me) house, and with a new job, (with the same company) I make my triumphant return to an Internet that probably forgot I existed somewhere around mid-2001. In future times, I’ll actually make substantial updates to this site again, with a bunch of ideas that popped into my head at various times when I was either too busy moving or too disconnected from the internet to act on any of them, and eventually, I’ll make a complete return to normalcy, where I completely ignore this site I pay actual money that I need for and just talk about how much I hate Mike Martz on Armchair Linebacker. But for now, I’ll give you a quick rundown (or one that was intended to be quick until I actually started typing) of some of the ins, outs, and arounds of the first new job I’ve had since late 2003.