August 2
RAAAR!!! So, I was walking through Central Park one day, and I look up and there's this baby making all faces at me and mocking me and then I saw that the baby got put down on the ground, so you know what happens next, right? You know what I did, right? This is me posing right before, yep, you guessed it, I ate her. Raaar!
Before I get started with the entry, I'd like to let you all know that there's a sign hanging in the kitchen here at the Death Star. A sign reading:
PLEASE DO NOT BRUSH YOUR TEETH, RINSE OUT YOUR MOUTH OR SPIT IN THIS SINK! DO IT IN THE BATHROOM!
It is an absolute fact: the people who work in the labs here are pigs. This may be a difference in culture (like the shitting all over the walls and floor, or taking out your tampon or ripping off your pad and leaving it carefully at the side of the bowl for everyone after you to enjoy all the day long until the unfortunate maintenance guy goes in and cleans the crapper. Serves him right, I say. At 4:35 every day, he stands behind me, reading over my shoulder and shaking open the garbage bag in an elaborate, obnoxiously obvious "Pay attention to me!" way. Clean up someone's bloody mess, foo! It is karmic payback for disturbing me each and every day. It got so bad for a while that I'd actually hide when I saw him coming, but then he did this thing where he'd be all quiet out in the hall so I didn't know he was around until he was in my office. Now, I have said way more than I wanted to about the Bag Wrinkler.) that tells people of, uh, certain other ethnic backgrounds who are the only ones hocking out microwaved fish and rice scented loogies that that is acceptable public behavior, but Your BS will not stand for it. No no! She is on ever watchful patrol for lapses in good old American Sensibilities, so you've nothing to fear.
Just Wondering:
What would you do if you had this dog that you love a lot, this dog you love so much you're putting her through Chemotherapy to prolong her little doggy life, because you can't bear to think of her not around? You love your dog! She's cute! She's fluffy! She rolls in shit! She gives long, slobbery stink breath kisses in the wee small hours of the morning. She is, all things considered, a Damn Fine Dog!
So what would you do if this Damn Fine Dog, a dog known for leaping over the fence and tearing around the neighborhoods, tormenting cats and eating garbage--having been leashed onto a dog run to keep her in the yard and after figuring out that on said dog run she could still jump over the fence, but was then trapped in the driveway in one specific part so just sits there forlornly, waiting to be rescued and lead back into the yard (because, god help me, she can get out but never back in. Why? Why IS this? How is it that the animal can jump OUT of a fence but never get her shit together to jump back in? I digress ) only to jump back over and repeat the same process over and over and over again ad infinitum.
What would YOU DO, if your dutiful husband let your retarded dog back into the house again, for the oh, say, 800th time in a week and you both continue getting ready for work and then you're ready and you both step out onto the back porch at the same time and your eyes rest on your almost favorite (and certainly most costly) possession, your truck and you notice something that almost brings tears to your eyes, but that would be weird, but the thing you notice are scratches. Up and down the length of the side, just as far as a horrible, cancer addled little dog on a dog run will reach. Scratches in groups of threes and fours. All over. The side. Of my motherfucking truck.
If you are anything like me, you will stop dead and say "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!" You will approach your vehicle slowly, mouth agog. You will think many many bad baaaddd things about your animal. You will freak out about it, internally. You will get home from work later that night, step down from you previously perfect (well, almost) truck, look at the scratches, walk into the house and glare at your lucky-to-not-be-dead-from-a-foot-up-the-ass car scratching fuckbag dog.
So yeah, my dog scratched my truck. Bad. I buffed it out and yet scratches remain. Whatever. My angry time has passed thanks for copious amounts of alcohol and fists of sedatives. Ahh!
Nutbags and Rock.
Now, I had no idea Bob Larson was an actual real religious kook! I thought that I'd just happened onto a really randomly fucked up but cool book by a lunatic. You've no idea how happy I was when you all told me that he was a religious freak. Okay, so you may or may not know this (no, you definitely don't know this), but when I was in college, I became obsessed with televangelists, specifically Robert Tilton. I called and called and had them pray for me and was generally, I'm proud to report, a total nuisance, but they never knew. In any event, Bob Larson is, in fact, out of his fucking mind. Don't believe me? Take a look! And, in the meantime, let's learn a little something more about music!
Heavy Metal Madness:
Heavy metal isn't a new element on a physics periodical chart, nor is it an industrial product conceived for the construction industry. (har, har! That's fucking funny! See? Ranting lunatics often have outstanding senses of humor!) Heavy metal is a kind of rock music spawned in the late sixties and alive and well in the eighties.
Those who listen to heavy metal are called "head bangers" (the "quotes" are not quite "accurate". The proper term for those who listen to heavy metal is "Dateless Boys Living in Mom's Basement") alluding to the musical energy and excitement that makes fans bang their heads on the foot of the concert stage. (Wha? They banged their HEADS ON THE STAGE? And yet, people were blaming the music for all of those Judas Priest suicides? I'd say that you've got the answer to why these fuckwits killed themselves just by examining the fact that they all were standing around banging their heads on the stage, no?) The term "heavy metal" came from a description of its sound, comparing the crashing guitar chords to a Detroit assembly line (more like a Detroit shootout. Are there any American cars still made in Detroit?)
Rock critic Lester Bangs defines it specifically (and, without a doubt, like a pompous bag of shit): "In its classic form, it features plodding, unsubtle rhythms, screaming vocals, primal wailing guitar sounds, and macho-posturing lyrics dealing with sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll" (see? a bag of shit).
A more analytical description was featured in Rolling Stone magazine, which declared, "Heavy metal may not be high art, but it is heroic and its heroes assumes one of several poses: Sexual athletes (AC/DC [that little freak in short pants is sexually athletic? Of course! I see!]); the ascendancy to manhood via a variant on knife-wielding juvenile delinquency (Twisted Sister [you know what, Twisted Sister sucked. Their music was awful. They looked absolutely ridiculous. I do not believe for even one moment that any of them have even yet--to this day--ascended to manhood. Thank you.]); insane instrumental virtuosity (Ymgwie Malmsteen [truthfully, I think that he's picking on Ymgwie because he's got too many consonants in his first name, and some combination thereof must spell out "satan" in some form or another]); the good old transcendent rock'n'roll party ethic (Scorpions and Ratt [one I get behind 100 percent, I might add]); or any combination thereof (Motley Crue [best thing about Motley Crue? The way the spell "crue". That's some funny stuff. Crue. Hah!]).
Confronting Satanic Rock:
Suppose you discover your child listens to satanic music (I enjoy the fact that "satan" and "satanic" are very carefully not capitalized unless they're in a title. Devilman, you are a lower case letter kind of demon!) Perhaps (insert dramatic pause here at your own discretion) he owns such records. As a concerned parent, you want to take action. What can you do?
Pose the following questions to him:
1.) Does purchasing a record enhance the artist's popularity and more widely disperse his philosophy? (Do you really think that your retarded, backwards, redneck child's purchase of "Bark at the Moon" on 45 made one iota of difference in Ozzy's life? Do you? Do you think that if your retarded, backwards redneck child's avoiding that 45 of "Bark at the Moon" instead choosing, oh, I don't know, Ethyl Merman singing the Star Spangled Banner" because it's a WHOLESOME, GOD LOVING song is going to be GOOD for him? Uh-huh. Okay, there.)
When a rock artist is idolized by millions of impressionable youth, his outlook on the demonic may be more inviting because of his commercial success. Certainly, no moral young person would want his peers to experiment with the occult simply because his favorite rock star recommends it. (Demons: the right thing to do, and a tasty way to do it!)
2.) If the music has the ability to convey spiritual power as well as melodic and rhythmic content, what is implied when a musician admits contact with the power of darkness? (That sounds utterly dramatic. I get a mental picture of this weaselly looking Bob Larson chasing after, say, the lead singer from Poison after a show, and saying "Excuse me, Devil Worshiping Heathen..but do you admit that you've had contact with the POWER OF DARKNESS? and the guy fluffs up his hair like a cockatoo, puts down his freshly drained bottle of Jack, pushes some big titted groupie out of the way and mumbles "Damn good show. I looked out into the audience and all there was was darkness" Then, the rest of the band walks in and they're all "WOOO! ROCK AND ROLL, GOOD SHOW!! GOOD SHOW!!" and Bob Larson taking out his chewed up number two pencil and writing in tiny, exacting cursive "Admits to seeing darkness")
Pagan rituals conjure up demons by rhythmic repetition and idolatrous devotion. Beware, then, of musical performers who misuse creativity to incest occult power in their art. ("New! Art with 90 percent more Occult Power! Extra Chewy!!")
3.) Is it possible to listen to the music of a rock artist involved in the occult and appreciate his talent without being affected by his lyrics or demonic inspiration? (I'm curious. How did we get from "lyrics" to "DEMONIC INSPIRATION" in the same breath? Oh, wait...can someone say insane zealot?)
Satan can make music to create an unhealthy spiritual atmosphere (So can Yanni and Celine Dion and Kenny G and Mandy Moore and Christina BigheadAguwhat'sherbutt). The subconscious mind, the seat of the soul, (stop looking at my seat, pervert..) is affected.
All occult phenomena comes from satan, the enemy of God. Therefore, anyone who advocates the demonic practices declares himself in opposition to (deep breath here) The Lorduh (please note: Spelling liberty entirely mine). The devil relentlessly pursues your child's sympathy ("Daddy, that devil guy was over here again, and this time he asked me for some money. He looked so sad that I had to give him some.."), so pray that he makes the right decision. (Because it's a fact. Girls will have nothing to do with the devil or rock 'n' roll music. They're too busy playing with their anatomically blank until marriage Polly Prayer dolls)
I must admit, I'm looking forward to jesus obsessed fuckwits showing up on my page someday soon because they were looking up Bob Larson. What was that name? Why, BOB LARSON, of course. BOB LARSON, who writes brilliant, scathing musical commentary from a wholesome, christian point of view. I hear he also does exorcisms. Sweet!
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Once again we are hungry for a lynching
That's a strange mistake to make
You should turn the other cheek
Living in a glass house