The Baby Jesus Butt-plug

Oh yeah! This is exactly what it looks like. It's a butt-plug in the shape of baby Jesus. Christianity has been, is and will be the most successful corporation of all time, it was only a matter of time before they went into exploiting sex.

Jesus Lives (in your ass).

Job 41:1-3

1 Can you pull in the Leviathan with a fishhook
or tie down his tongue with a rope?

2 Can you put a cord through his nose
or pierce his jaw with a hook?

3 Will he keep begging you for mercy?
Will he speak to you with gentle words?

(Yes I know, it's a bible quote but how awesome is that whale?)

ΚΕΦΑΛΗ ΞΘ

In lieu of a celebration here is an excerpt from Aleister Crowley's Book of Lies. Psalm 69.

The Way To Succeed And The Way To
Suck Eggs!

This is the Holy Hexagram.
Plunge from the height, O God, and interlock with
Man!
Plunge from the height, O Man, and interlock with
Beast!
The Red Triangle is the descending tongue of grace;
the Blue Triangle is the ascending tongue of
prayer
This Interchange, the Double Gift of Tongues, the
Word of Double Power-ABRAHADABRA!-is
the sign of the Great Work, for the Great
Work is accomplished in Silence. And behold is
not that Word equal to Cheth, that is Cancer.
whose Sigil is {Cancer}?
This Work also eats up itself, accomplishes its own
end, nourishes the worker, leaves no seed, is per-
fect in itself.
Little children, love one another!
What a fucking weirdo he was! Hurray for weirdos!

Back to the USSR











In the lovely, lovely time of the Cold War and the Iron Curtain, the authoritarian regimes of the USSR banned the import of records from the West. Jazz and Rock n' Roll were considered as corruptive capitalist influences. Whatever. The people wanted music, the people got music. Certain ingenious rockers in practically every country on their side of the Iron Curtain spoke louder than words when they started printing records on discarded x-ray plates. These records wore out more easily but were also cheaper and there was practically no way to control their circulation. Thus our rocking brethren in the East said a loud "Fuck You!" to their oppressors. How's that for sticking it to the man?

Radio Free Vestibule - I don't want to go to Toronto



I don't want to go to Toronto
I don't want to go
All of the blocks are square
None of the streets are twisted
None of the streets are paved with bricks
There's too many elevators in Toronto
Not enough stairs in Toronto
Not enough stairs
All of the food in Toronto is made of edible oil products
They don't have bagels in Toronto
They have doughnuts
Doughnuts made of edible oil
I don't like doughnuts
They don't have bagels
I don't want to go to Toronto
People don't have faces in Toronto
They have cigarette ads instead
They listen to your phone calls
There's a tower in Toronto that controls people's minds
It's illegal to possess brightly coloured balloons in Toronto
Illegal to own brightly coloured balloons
All of the children in Toronto must wear suits
Even the girls
Three piece suits
The buildings in Toronto have no windows
I don't want to go
Everyone lives in subterranean caverns
Filled with doughnuts made of edible oil
I don't want to go
Nobody goes to the bathroom in Toronto
They have a special operation
They have it removed surgically
There's a tax on all wicker goods in Toronto
There's huge buildings with no windows
And streets with no curves
And inside you find little girls in suits
Running around with black balloons
And munching on edible oil products
The kids don't have names
They have numbers which are assigned to them at birth
They're called three hundred and eighty seven point seven
Four hundred and twelve point nine
And they all have cigarette ads instead of faces
I don't want to go to Toronto
I don't want to go
I have plenty of wicker goods
I don't want a tax on my wicker goods
I like going to the bathroom
I don't want to go the hospital
I don't want to go to Toronto
I don't want to go
Do I have to go to Toronto?
Do I?
Do I have to go?
I don't want to go
Do I have to go to Toronto?
I don't want to go

Why is his head so big?

Johnny The Homicidal Maniac got us close.

Squee! got us closer.

Fillerbunny got me a kiss with you.




Thank you Johnen Vasquez.

All the way to Jacob


This Be The Verse (by Philip Larkin)

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Jason the Freemason

There was a policeman who was six-foot-four
As thick as a pillar, as wide as a door
His first name was Jason
He was a Freemason
Thank fuck he was nailed to the floor

Speaking of piggies...


...some of the oil companies we buy fuel from play a major role in supporting the junta in Burma. This is where you can make a difference. Sign Avaaz.org's global call to boycott Total Oil and Chevron gas stations (with subsidiaries such as Elf and Texaco, truly the scum of the land) until either real democratic reform happens in Burma, or these companies stop funneling money to the current regime.

Boycott and sign the pledge, so that Avaaz can show the companies just how many customers they're losing by continuing to support the Burmese regime.

To add your name and learn more about the boycott, click here.

If not us, who, if not now, when?


Once upon a wretched time, there were three thousand little piggies. There was only one wolf. He wasn't particularly big and he wasn't really bad. But he was proud and he was determined. For the good of all wolfkind, the piggies had to die. The wolf was alone in this and he was hunted, but he wasn't afraid. Or at least he overcame his fear because killing the piggies was what he felt was right. The wolf killed many piggies and some of the other farm animals felt good about that. Alas, the wolf was caught by hunters working closely with the piggies and was put down. Unfortunately for the piggies, he left plenty of offspring. They say his last words were: "My soul will not rest until the entrails of the last piggy are tightly coiled around the throat of the last hunter".

This calls for a celebration.

Sack of Potatoes

The old man stood there, in the middle of the street, staring. He wasn't staring in a particular way or with a particular face. However, he was staring at something in particular. It was a sack of potatoes.
This would be a perfectly normal picture -if rather unusual- had the old man not been talking with the sack of potatoes.
Now, there are several things wrong with the above sentence. For example, why would an old man -in fact, why would a man, woman or child of any age- strike up a conversation with a sack of potatoes, or any kind of container full of vegetables for that matter. However, that could probably be attributed to the old man's senility or dementia (or loneliness I suppose). The other concept that seems wrong, is that he was talking with it and not to it. People do generally tend to talk to inanimate objects, threaten or cajole them if they don't work, curse them when they bang their little toe against them etc. However, they generally never get a reply or at least not one that can be helpful or understood. And they certainly don't expect one.
This old man, on the other hand, was having a rather casual chat with this sack of potatoes. I suppose in a way that's tragic, or at least a bit sad. Poor old guy, so demented and senile, not only was he asking the sack of potatoes what it thought about the weather, he was expecting -and in his head also getting- an answer.
Of course the sack of potatoes never did reply. Or in fact perceive, let alone understand, the question directed at it. It was -in a very anthropomorphic sense- oblivious to the old man. This was not due to lack of trying. Neither arrogance. It was rather due to the combined effect of growing up underground and in the dark and, well, being a mass of vegetable cells with no discernible anatomy, sensory apparatuses or a processing system -central or otherwise- and therefore functioning at a very distinctly different cognitive level of consciousness. Should the sack of potatoes be able to understand the old man and be able to produce a coherent response, it is almost certain that it would be more than happy to indulge in some friendly, casual banter.
Alas, the old man and the sack of potatoes would never truly communicate.

(Several years later and after the old man had died, a very giggly fairy -we suspect she was stoned- granted the sack of potatoes' wish and turned it into a real boy)

They may take our lives but they may never take us seriously


What follows is pretty much a direct translation from a post on prezatv.blogspot.com. Even though it is a greek blog, I think the message is relevant to all, especially europeans and americans.

"Terrorist threats, circulation of radical ideas and recruitment from anti-establishment groups is the pretext that the two biggest political parties in Greece are using to pass a new war-against-terrorism bill in accordance with the European Union. According to this bill, the National Intelligence Agency will be responsible for surveilling the web with the purpose of anti-terrorism enforcement."

In other words, welcome ruffian, goodbye freedom. Goodbye freedom of speech, goodbye freedom of ideas, goodbye freedom of thought. We can't allow this. Spread the news. Do something.

Anathema of Zos (The Sermon to the Hypocrites)

Austin Osman Spare was a fucking weirdo. To say the least. He was an automatic writer and painter. He was also considered a magician by many. His dabbling with the occult is well known and as Terry Pratchett would put it "it wasn't so much dabbling as it was barging in and demanding to see the manager". His writings and drawings can be seen here.

He died poor and alone in some shitty basement in London, I think.

He has spawned many weirdos over the years. Bless his wretched soul.




Here is an excerpt from his work Anathema of Zos (which by the way is very reminiscent of Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zaratustra):

Hostile to self-torment, the vain excuses called devotion, Zos satisfied the habit by speaking loudly unto his Self. And at one time, returning to familiar consciousness, he was vexed to notice interested hearers-a rabble of involuntary mendicants, pariahs, whoremongers, adulterers, distended bellies, and the prevalent sick-grotesques that obtain in civilisations. His irritation was much, yet still they pestered him, saying: Master, we would learn of these things! Teach us Religion!

And seeing, with chagrin, the hopeful multitude of Believers, he went down into the Valley of Stys, prejudiced against them as Followers. And when he was ennuye, he opened his mouth in derision, saying:-
O, ye whose future is in other hands! This familiarity is permitted not of thy-but of my impotence. Know me as Zos the Goatherd, saviour of myself and of those things I have not yet regretted. Unbidden ye listen'd to my soliloquy. Endure then my Anathema.

Foul feeders! Slipped, are ye, on your own excrement? Parasites! Having made the world lousy, imagine ye are of significance to Heaven?


As I said, fucking weirdo. In the nicest possible way though.

Rides out believer with the spliff aflame


Drop out of life with bong in hand
Follow the smoke to-uh the riff-filled land
Drop…out of life with bong in hand
Follow the smoke to-uh the riff-filled land

Burning your black flags


I been dryin' in a dead age
I been reekin' of the new plague
The sound of the ocean is dead
It's just the echo of the blood in your head

Sister burn the temple
And stand beneath the moon
The sound of the ocean is dead
It's just the echo of the blood in your head

The Unbearable Curse of Being an Autocondimentor (or how to betray yourself by expecting too little)

-Can I have a ticket please?
-Single or return?
-Single please, I'm not coming back.
-Are you running away from something?
-Yes, myself.
-I beg your pardon?
-Well you can't have it.
-Sorry?
-You will be.
-Are you crazy or are you high?
-Both. Now drive, ignorant slave drone!!!

Jagganath



Now you see all this time
Work nine to five
Monday through Friday I'm singing
I sing the blues for you
Now I'm standing in the pouring rain
My feet are cold but I cant complain
And I wonder how you have been
I need you love I miss you so
I know it's right but it's always strange
How I scream
All this life's worth all the while
Heartache and slave driving pain
I sing the blues for you
Now I'm standing in the pouring rain
My feet are cold but I can't complain
And I wonder how you have been
I need you love I miss you so
I know it's right but it's always strange
-Mastodon, We Built This Come Death

And now, it's time for us, to give a little love, back to God

Soon I discovered that this Rock thing was true
Jerry Lee Lewis was the devil
Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet
All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world
So there was only one thing that I could do
Was ding a ding dang my dang a long ling long

Love me two times, baby


Once upon a time there was a little girl...

No let's start again.

There was a little girl
who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead...

No that's not it either.

There are people and there are stories. They happily live with each other and in each other. They help each other grow. They watch and love each other. They help each other evolve and multiply. Because angels love to multiply.

Where I'm going, there are sheep. No, don't laugh, I'm going somewhere with this. See I feel like the Little Prince with a sawn-off shotgun, I love my beautiful rose and if any sheep dare to fuck with my beautiful little rose I will spray-paint the canyons with their brains. In the nicest possible way.

I'll sell my soul, my self esteem
a dollar at a time for one chance, one kiss

one taste of you my Magdalena
- A Perfect Circle, Magdalena

Love me two times, baby

Love me twice today

Love me two times, girl
I'm goin away

Love me two times, girl

One for tomorrow

One just for today

Love me two times

I'm goin away

Love me one time

I could not speak

Love me one time
Yeah, my knees got weak

But love me two times, girl

Last me all through the week

Love me two times

I'm goin away

Love me two times

I'm goin away

-The Doors, Love me two times

I feel blessed. Not because you love me. That's priceless but entirely up to you. I feel blessed because I got the chance to love you.

Κι εμένα θα μου λείψεις
-Εγώ

Winds with Hands

And like a newborn he is lifted. Dead between the walls. Caught in the headlights. The roadkill of society. The animal inside the man. The power animal. Animus. Magnanimous. Stagnant and stale. Like a swamp. Like a fool stumbling into the swamp. Our new god. What is your name so that we may worship you? Give us a sign. Perform a miracle so that we may avert our eyes. Give us some commandments for we cannot live with the burden of conscience. This is a new birth. A new life. From the beginning. With the benefit of experience. Keep the gun oiled and the temple clean, shit, snort and blaspheme...


Victim eugenics
Bleed your broken back
Spill blood
You may never die

Run with death, follow
We made you, workhorse
To serve
To run and follow




Du...
Du hast...
Du hast mich...
Du hast mich...
Du hast mich gefragt...
Du hast mich gefragt...
Du hast mich gefragt und ich hab nichts gesagt.

It's raining ash today


I was here before you were born. I was here before most things were born. I have been a desert. I have been a mountain. I have been the core, the mantle, the magma. I have been a river, a sea, a cloud. I have been one thousand rocks, ten thousand apes, one million birds. I have been a solar eclipse, a tidal wave and the gravitational pull of Saturn. I saw your first ancestor crawl out of the murky waters in search of food. I have seen men rape, loot and pillage in search of immortality. Immortality is an illusion or rather a disillusion. Noone that seeks immortality is really prepared for it. I have lived for one million epochs and I have watched things die around me slowly yet steadily. I have lived and I will keep on living.
Call me conduit. Call me ascendant. Call me the forgotten.
I am half the eternal conflict. The blind goat-god in the center of the universe. Chaos dances to the music I make.
I have spent the last thousand of your pathetically minute years watching you. Watching from atop a hill. You call it a mountain. You don't know what a mountain looks like. I am the oldest one here. The others here call me Elder and ask me for advice. What a bunch of pathetic sheep. I pretend to be crazy and unable to hear them. I seem to be the only one that remembers.

I watch you from up here, leading your busy lives. Like little ants, passing each other, waving your antennae at each other for a split second then moving on. You crawl back and forth. From hole to hole. One thousand years. That's how long I've been watching. It's not alot for me. I bet your small mind couldn't even begin to comprehend it.

I am force unstoppable. I am object immovable. I am impact. I am unstoppable force stopped. I am immovable object moved. I am roaring fire consuming your world. I am drowning ocean quenching your lives' fire. I am biting frost making the water hurt. I am plague. I am sulfur. I am fire and blade.

One thousand years. I've been here for one thousand years and I would be for thousands more if it wasn't for your petty motives. If it wasn't for this fire on my feet. This smoke in my eyes. The ash in my hair. I will transform soon. I will never end. I will always be here. Watching you from somewhere else. Maybe a bird this time. Or a rock. Or maybe even a blade of grass. Perhaps a roaring flame...


Έλληνα ροκ, καουμπόη, το μπόι σου μέτρα
πόσα καμμένα δεντράκια για μια μεζονέτα

Insert catchy and slightly moody title here


Get a job. To get more money. To get a car. To get to work.
Make more money. Make some babies. Make them miserable. Make yourself happy.
Do your duty. Do your work. Do my dirty work scapegoat. Do tell.
Go figure. Go with the flow. Go lie down for a bit. Go fuck yourself.




Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?

Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. Darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

She will die


There once was a king with three beautiful daughters. Each one was more beautiful than the sky itself. The first sold her soul to the devil in exchange for eternal life and beauty in fear that she would grow old and her beauty would wither. She became a fertility goddess in deep dark Africa. The second bedded with an angel and gave birth to a son. Then she turned into a tree. Her son climbed on her, grew wings and flew away. She still stands there, roots in the ground, leaves in the sun. The third one, became a whore. She sold her beauty by the pound to anyone who would buy it. She fell in love with a young man who couldn't care less about her. She died miserable and alone, but the oh-so merciful gods gave her a second chance to life. They turned her into a flower that matched her human beauty.

And Georgia O' Keefe drew a picture of her.

A Glasgow kiss


All things are pocket sized if your ass is big enough.

All other things considered equal, fat people use more soap.

Oh, fuck this, I can't be bothered now...

Come see my cage, built in my grave

Paris Hilton is in jail... good.
Walt Disney is dead... good.
Habemus Papam... not so good.
When you die you are put in a hole in the ground... good.
When I die I ain't goin' to heaven... good.
The best parties are thrown in hell... good.
If we killed all the cows we wouldn't have a greenhouse effect problem... don't see why cattle should pay for our shortcomings.
You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are made of the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We are all part of the same compost heap. We are the all-singing all-dancing crap of the world.
Plastic and petroleum are dead dinosaurs.
Sausages are dead pigs.
Couches are dead trees.
Houses are dead earth.
Windows are dead beaches.
And the Lord looked upon His work and He saw it was good... wouldn't we all like to write our own reviews.
I understand and don't care, well, the skyscrapers look like gravestones from out here. - Acid Bath
Lest we forget little ants. Let it pour. We built this, come death.
This bog is thick and easy to get lost in
when you're a dumbass, beligerent fucker -Tool

Hermetically shut


According to Norse mythology, the wall that enclosed Asgard was destroyed during a war between the Vanir and the Aesir, leaving the gods vulnerable to an attack by the giants.


One day, an itinerant stonemason named Blast came to Asgard and offered to rebuild the wall if the goddess Freya would consent to be his wife. He asked for the sun and the moon as well. The gods wanted the wall rebuilt but the terms stated by the mason were outrageous. However, the god Loki proposed a way of outwitting the mason and getting at least part of the wall rebuilt for nothing. The gods agreed to the payment asked by the mason, but only if the work was completed within six months. The mason insisted that he be allowed to use his stallion, Svadilfari, in rebuilding the wall.


The work proceeded much more rapidly than the gods had anticipated and they began to worry that the mason might have to be paid after all. The god Odin threatened to kill Loki if the wall was completed within the allotted time. Loki saw that the mason's horse was doing the heavy hauling and he devised a plan to deprive the mason of the help of his horse. Taking the form of a young mare, Loki lured the stallion into a thicket and made sure that he remained there until the next day. When Svadilfari returned to his master it was too late to complete the work. The mason became so angry that he revealed his true form, that of a rock giant. The god Thor dispatched the giant with a mighty blow of his hammer, Mjollnir.


Months later, Loki returned to Asgard. He brought with him a gray colt with eight legs, the foal of Loki the mare and Svadilfari the stallion. He gave it to Odin, saying that its name was Sleipnir. The colt could travel over land and sea and through the air.

My Wall

And I do walk upon Wan’s Dyke
And I do survey the land
And I did become the Reaper with my own bare hands
For I am Wodan,
Though, some call me Hermes,
Some call me Roman Mercury,
God of cargos,
God of weather,
Hanging God of boundaries,
Hanging God of Gibbet Hill
Killing God of hidden doorways.

SatanOscillateMyMetallicSonatas

Luigi Russolo was a great man and one can only hope that one day all artists will be as open-minded as he was and all people will be as receptive to art as he was. What do you mean you don't know who he was? Fine, here's the goddamn link.

Many thanks must be given to pioneering behemoths in the land of art. One of the most modern ones being Sunn o))). Above is the wall they have created and that has caught us all in its thrall.
On a lighter note: If you like farty sounds or music that sounds like farts or farting in general or even if you're looking for a decent immature laugh, here is the Grand Master Thunderbuns, the Lord of Fart, the one and only Le Pétomane. Go on, click on it.
And allow me to exit with a lyrical touch:
Clutch - Binge and Purge

Perhaps it's just the way the light falls
But everything looks like a target to me
And I don't know where the gun is
But I'm certain that it's pointed at me

And in the jungle, wretched jungle
They say the lion eats tonight
And all around it is a colliseum
Dripping with a voracious appetite

I say hey there, fella
Whose soul are you tormenting now?
Hey there, fella
Whose soul are you tormenting now?

In the course of all the previous events
It is evident that something's bound to happen
Come on, rear your ugly head to me
I've got nothing to lose but my apathy

The root of the problem has been isolated
The root of the problem has been isolated
The root of the problem has been isolated
The root of the problem has been isolated

Come on, motherfucker
Come on, motherfucker
Come on, motherfucker
Let's throw down

Anything Jesus Does I Can Do Better


This is a picture of two mating leopard slugs. They are both hermaphrodite and that phosphorescent blue flower that seems to be growing out of both of their heads is their entangled penises.

That's right they're exchanging semen and they have their dicks on the side of their heads. You should see this in motion (get a copy of David Attenborough's 'Life in the Undergrowth' NOW!!!) it is beautiful beyond words.

Oh! and the whole thing is happening upside-down while hanging from a rope made of their mucus.

Every single time I am dumbfounded...

Here you go ya ignorant bastards! Enlighten yourselves! Click here to commence the slug-shagging!

Feel-bad hit of the Winter (He who accepts all that is offered)


In our temple I perform the libations
With some dark and obscure connotations
We want kisses and hugs
Like hermaphrodite slugs
Yet we need no divine approbations

They say all good things are eleven
Tonight we make love like we're brethren
We demand sacrifice
Simple love wont suffice
For tonight we wage war against heaven

Hush little baby...


Like bottle-glass scraping 'cross the pavement
A small life ended, eyes glazed, mouth half-open
Crimson halo, the truth exiting the mouth at its own pace
Saliva and blood on cold and wet cement
Just because some cunt couldn't care less
And everytime I pass, my daemon wants to stare, but my hand thinks otherwise and shields my eyes, a little body broken, empty
Thrown away like a used condom
You look like a saint, cold, removed and oh-so beautiful
I pray you found oblivion, I don't know what I pray to but nonetheless I pray
And I can't help but wince
But maybe it's for the best


(For all the little lives that are much bigger than any one of us thinks)

Exit light, Enter the night


I don't know how to say this...
I suppose the best way would be to just say it...
I... I... I don't...
I don't have anything to bitch about!
I know I know, there's plenty of things to bitch about, but I don't feel like it...
Finally, things are falling into place and the universe is conspiring with me and not against me.

Dodge Swinger 1973, Galaxy 500,
All the way stars' green, gotta go.
Dodge Swinger 1973, top down, chassis low,
Panel dim, light drive, Jesus on the dashboard.
T-minus whenever it feels right, Galaxy 500.
Planets align, a king is born.

Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right

Dodge Swinger 1973, top down, chassis free,
Buzz Aldrin, Armstrong, or maybe just me.
Don't worry, it's coming.
Don't worry, it's coming.
Jesus on the dashboard.

Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
I turn on the radio.

Hey kid, are you going my way?
Hop in, we'll have ourselves a field day.
We'll find us some spacegrass,
Lay low, watch the universe expand.
Skyway, permanent Saturday.
Oh, by the way, Saturn is my rotary.
Hop in, it'll be eternity
Till we make it to M83.

Once around the Sun, cruising, climbing.
Jupiter cyclops winks at me, yeah, he knows who's driving.
Hit neutral in the tail of a comet.
Let the vortex pull my weight.
Push the seat back a little lower.
Watch light bend in the blower.
Planets align.
A king is born.
Dodge Swinger.
Jesus on the dashboard.

Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right
Whenever it feels right

T-minus whenever it feels right...

Why can you not let go?
Why do you cry when something breaks?
A duvet is just a blanket, not comfort, nor love, a blanket. A sofa is planks of wood and cushions. Not a problem solved.
Let go. Just let go. And then you might have a near-life experience.
Ah! The world I see...

A hand is a saviour. A messiah brought on by your desperate cries. It lifts the burden of emptiness and wipes your stigmata clean of sorrow.

A door is a passage. Neither here nor there. In between.

A mouth is a haven.

In the end, the house always wins. But you don't have to play against the house. Oh for a Dartswinger, my kingdom for a Dartswinger.

The things you own, end up owning you...

The guy who invented IKEA
I hope he gets gonorrhea
May he lose but one ball
And his dick, shrink and fall
For having this horrendous idea

Avast ye scurvy dogs!


There was an old pirate who was fluent in Thai
Who walked on a peg-leg and saw with one eye
He sailed many seas
Caught a venereal disease
But tragically choked on a pie







The cucumber suicides

There was a cucumber
With a fetish for lumber
Who was often the victim of strife
People called him a veggie
Gave him many a wedgie
And sadly, he took his own life

Under your bed


The ghouls that are under your bed
They come from the Land of the Dead
They know you're alone
But don't whimper or moan
They'll leave just as soon as they've fed

It's more than just a game...

It's in our head...
Mostly.

The rest is circumstance, priorities and possibilities.

There was a small boy
With a devious ploy
To rid this poor world of its sorrow
Above or underground
He still hasn't found
A nuclear device he can borrow

I hope she will be mine...

Stone Sour - Omega



What a skeletal wreck of man this is

Translucent flesh and feeble bones
The kind of temple where the whores and villains
Try to tempt the holistic tomes

Running rapid with free thought to free form
In the free and clear
Where the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at a laundromat
To sift and focus on the bigger, better, now

We all have a little sin than needs venting
Virtues for the rending
And laws and systems
And stems ariff from the branches of office
Do you know what your post entails?

Do you serve a purpose?
Or purposely serve?

Lying down inside of your attavistic galore
The value of a Summer spent
And a Winter earned

For the rest of us there is always Sunday.
The day of the week that reeks of rest
But all we do is catch out breaths
So we can wade naked into the bloody pool
And place our hand on the big black book.

To watch the knives zig-zag between our aching fingers.

A vacation is a count-down
T-minus your life and counting
Time to drag your tongue across the sugar-cube
And hope you get a taste

What the FUCK is all this for?! (What the hell is goin' on?!)
SHUT UP!!

I could go on and on, but, lets move on shall we?

Say, you're me and I'm you
And they all watch the things we do
And like a smack of spite
They threw me down the stairs
Haven't felt like this in years
The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse
Let me go and
Punch me into the dead spot again.

Thats where you go when theres' no one else around
It's just you
And there was never anyone to begin with now was there?

Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards
With their thumb on the pulse
And a finger on the trigger

CLASSIFIED MY ASS! that's a FUCKING secret and you know it!

Government is another way to say
Better
Than
You.

It's like ice but no pick
A murder charge that won't stick
It's like a whole other world
Where you can smell the food
But you can't touch the silverware

Hah, what luck
Fascism you can vote for
Isn't that sweet

And we're all gonna die some day
Because thats the American way
And I've drunk too much
And said too little
When your gaffer taped in the middle
Say a prayer, save face
Get yourself together and (see whats happening)
SHUT UP! (FUCK YOU!)
FUCK YOU!

I'm sorry, I could go on and on but
It's time to move on, so

Remember your a wreck, an accident
Forget the freak, you're just nature

Keep the gun oiled and the temple clean
Shit, snort and blaspheme
Let the heads cool and the engine run

Because in the end,
Everything we do
Is just everything we've done.

I am so full of anger (and nicotine)...


And pasta and chocolate and epithelial cells...
Alex receives the bitchslapping like a gentleman, although he clearly isn't one...
I have been called stupid, ugly, an asshole I have even been called a bright young man (don't worry the guy who said it is dead, I made sure he was), my sexuality has come into question and people have said bad things about my family.

But nothing...
Nothing
hurts as bad as being rejected by a chick you like...
Go on, roll eyes and speak bullshit, at least half the population of this planet knows what I'm talking about.
Bitchslapped all the way back to the beginning of time and space...

Now to find a funky picture...
Ooooh yeah... That's more like it... I feel a bit better now...
Fling that pork-griller son... Fling it like you mean it...
I wanna burn stuff...

Tony blows...


Oh yeah! You suck on that, you naughty boy! Oooooh, you do it well!

Sorry, had to do that...
Found this new site a couple of days ago, www.hackthissite.org, great training ground for wannabe hackers, teaches you alot if you have the patience...

I can hear you thinking: "What is he going to rant about now?" (I can also smell your brains). Well my filthy little poop-minions, here it is: Isn't christianity getting a bit old? I mean, do we still have to take seriously people that consider "intelligent design" a valid theory about how the world became what it is today?
"Intelligent design" is an oxymoron, creationists are actually proof that whatever it was that may have designed them, was clearly fucking thick and supra-retarded.
And of course, at the very front, the vanguard of idiocy and retardation, the flag-bearers of belligerent stupidity and titans of ignorance, the Americunts!
What kind of people argue for creationism being taught to children, and why are they not dead yet? Why do we let these people poison the minds of the young and impressionable, why do we let them kill their imagination and replace the natural urge for asking questions and doubting with a load of ignorant bullshit?
Why do I have to come across people who still want to argue against evolution? Why have they not been exiled yet? Why have they not met their maker yet? Please DIE!!!

FUCK!!! If I had a penny for every stupid christian I met, I would have as many pennies as there are christians. Stupid fucks, holding the rest of humanity back...
Fuck off and die already...

Another sorrow...


A new year... whoop-dee-fucking-doo... like anything is going to change anytime soon... Raytheon built a microwave weapon for the Pentagon (cough-scumfucks-cough) which can give protesters the sensation of burning skin in order to break up protests (how democratic!).
I sure wish I had one... and boy-oh-boy would I have targets to turn it against... can anyone smell bacon?
And while we're on the subject of burning pigs... boy that RPG-7 sure fuckin' hurt didn't it? Now all I see in the papers and news is a bunch of little american piggies aided by our homegrown swine, running about terrified: "We have no evidence, we can do jack-shit! Some of these greeklanders are actually free-thinking people! Whu... Whe... We... can't... control them... aaahhh!"
Ahhh! The sweet, fragrant aroma of sizzling hog-flesh... One can only hope... I'm a dreamer, hope I'm not the only one...

Piss on you... and piss on your law...


It's been awhile...
Tool and Mastodon came, saw and conquered... and they jammed Lateralus together (from trustworthy sources, they only did this in Zurich and Athens) and they RAWKED!!!
Of course, greek misery always finds the grey points to comment on, nevermind the fact that we watched a really good concert, "they always do it better abroad"...
Anyway, fuck them, I enjoyed it...