Kyp, you are so money I just can't stand to see you breathing.

We keep it rough in Springfield, cut off our own damn limbs, (on purpose!), while grocery shopping and its no big deal at all!

In other news.

Last Friday I accompanied my friend Jamie down to the old stomping grounds of Clarendon, VA. We went to a bar right down the block and across the street from my old apartment ($225 a month, utilities included…guess how long ago that was?) and the offices of Kidner Transport, the moving company of Brigaddonish lore I have written about on this site a time or ten.

The bar was rocking a beach theme, it's called Mama Quan's Tiki Bar I do believe, and was packed to the gills with all manner of people I would love to see dead. They did nothing to me per se to deserve a deathwish but it's just their manner and energy that makes me hate them, hate them with an insane passion that unnerves me. Perhaps it's the nasty eye-cocked staredown that you have to endure with these fucking idjits whenever you want to take a step forward, maybe it's the mating call of a pasty white kid yelling, "YO DAWG THAT GURRRL IS MUNNNNEY FO RILL SON!!!!!", (see visual aid at top left, the bomb is a beautiful wish on my part and was not an actual part of the occurences of the evening at hand). Perhaps it's the clothes or maybe all three.

Most likely it's the entire package.

Whatever the formula for my ire, I would like to see them all gathered together in a pasture, say lure them in with a free Mister Greengenes concert so it's like Woodstock for dumbasses, and drop a daisycutter onto the beer bong tent in the center of the field. The ground littered with limbs and sandals, ill-fitting tube tops and cottage cheese legs shimmering with fake tanning spray, would bring the world closer to back to center. How come none of these nitwits ever get the urge to throw themselves into the meat saw? Life is so unfair.

I don't question where they come from (or accordingly why our college graduates are still fucking stupid after getting diplomas). I just find it stunning that anyone would willingly, repeatedly and worse excitedly join that herd. What am I not getting? Do I somehow miss the Siren like allure of pot-bellied loudmouthed harridans waxing poetic about how krunked they got at Dewey Beach and what a slut whoever isn't standing in front of them at the moment is? Do they somehow bark an inviting melody from their spittle flecked and Hecht's procured lip gloss covered mouths that my ears aren't attenuated to receiving?

Perhaps my neurons aren't firing correctly that I can't get jazzed about rolling with a posse of roundheaded chronic masturbaters that cop their vernacular from the Sports Junkies and think they're badasses when they crank up Nelly at the stoplight, (as long as no real black people are around). Obviously there's some kind of disconnect between my view of their detestability and the world at large because one thing about them, they do gather in tremendous numbers.

I imagine that my horror of being in their company and associated blood mission to glare at them hatefully despite no discernable effect or damage to their worthless selves is akin to that of a South Korean border guard knowing there's a million damned souls just over the hill waiting for the order to charge. The guard knows that despite his best efforts there's nothing he could do to stop them once they started to mass and he has naught to do but load a magazine, pray for his children and try not to shed a manful tear.

Ok, it's probably nothing like that but still..............

Jamie says I'm just grouchy and old, (true) but even when I was young (admittedly still pretty grouchy) I despised the then version of these dildoes hopping to and fro to Young MC and the like. No wonder the country keeps getting itself into so much trouble, these are the future upper crusties spawned from the homes of the current upper crusties that are in charge of things. If they're this detestable can you imagine what is going on with the lower class!

Odds Bodkins!

Did you see Batman Begins? Maybe I'll work on concocting some sort of potion to drop in North Arlington's water supply ala the Scarecrow. It won't drive people crazy with fear, it will transport them twenty years ahead in time so their future straw-brained selves can see what fools they were as young adults and give them a chance to save themselves from reflectionary embarrassment.

Or perhaps I'll take the path of least resistance and go to a real bar where I can be assured that none of these fucking fools could ever spend more than 30 seconds and not burst into flames or get stabbed in the face with a pinball machine.

That sounds like a better option.

See you there.

Oh my

The world is going to hell in a chicken bucket. The end is nigh..............

And yet Bud in a can is still magically delcious.

Lots coming next week, I've got more fire than Rove's dickpipe after contracting VD at a whorehouse for lumpy agents of Satan.

That's right baby....

You want the best, you got the best.

Andrea you are a monkey, (but not descended from one of course)

My nom de plume, Max, has decided to strike up a correspondence with Andrea Lafferty of the Traditional Values Coalition. I'm hoping she writes back -

Dear Andrea,

I have just found your website after seeing your group mentioned in an article about those Godless wimps in congress somehow voting against defending marriage. I am so mad, I haven't been this mad since I saw the report on the news about the 14 million mexicans that you and I have to pay for. I would like to send the homosexuals and the mexicans packing back to Mexico so they can do whatever Godless perversions they want and answer for it when they try to get past Saint Peter, (like THAT will ever happen). I just don't get it with this pandering to the gay elite. Why I was going to go see Superman but I read that HollyWEIRD has decided he has to be gay too. What blasphemy, what happened to the Man of Steel? Now he is the Man of Pink Flowers!

Are we not allowed to have any right thinking values in our entertainment? My son was watching some trash called "Project Runway" the other night until I took care of that!!! He told me he wants to be a fashion designer like some pervert on there named Santino, (guess what HE is?),of all things! Lord help me and a prayer from you would certainly be appreciated.

I liked the Homosexual Urban Legends section of your website. I sent a link to my ex-wife, (don't get me started please!!!!), and her reply was certainly not fit for sharing. Why I ever married that woman I don't know but I pray for her even though it's hard. I do struggle, she got Poison Ivy all over her last year and I laughed which is not the Christian thing to do but it was so hard not to. I pray for her, I do, even though I really do hate her most of the time. Did you ever see the movie Urban Legend? It was supposed to be scary but it's not as scary as watching two perverts of the same sex blaspheming a marriage altar, AM I RIGHT!?!??!?!

I was wondering where you attend services. I go to a church in Annandale but there has been an influx of mexicans lately and I just don't like it. Some of them don't even believe Jesus was white! Can you believe that? I ask them, "Have you seen the painting of the Last Supper??!!?!?!" but they don't answer me. It's like. "HELLO DON'T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THE BIBLE ANY BETTER THAN A BORDER CROSSING!?!?!?!?" LOL!!!

Is that your father in the pictures on your website? He is a handsome man (but I don't want to marry him LOL!!!) and I have to say you are quite fetching. If you would like to meet for coffee or a drink after or before church someday I would love to talk to you about everything. You are a great person to talk to I can tell! So please write me back and let me know where you worship. I will be here writing letters to my Congressman and demanding why he lets perverts like Barney Frank call the shots in our Congress!

Peace through Jesus,

Max

Even if it isn't true

Apparently, (according to my sources at On Tap), this incident has already been debunked, but even so, the mere concept of a bombed up David Hasslehoff demanding entrance to Wimbledon yelling, "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM...I AM THE HOFF!!!!!!!" deserves some recognition.

Those whacky British. Tidelair, a feather in your cap sir, truly.

In a finger injury/upcoming gig update we had a really not solid practice last night. I was seeping blood and associated gore from my finger, Ben had a fever and was about to pass out and Philito was preoccupied with concerns about the newly crowned Mrs. Philito's impending surgery. Best wishes to lovely Jennifer Mrs. Philito as she goes under the blade today.

It should be a great show tomorrow as awful practices usually precurse (is that a word?) good shows and vice versa.


In microburst news another tree just fell over up the street today. I guess it did the delayed death due to stress, sorta like Ken Lay. I find it kind of odd that folks feel that old Ken cheated the system by dying before getting incarcerated, but that's because I believe in Hell, not Christian bible Hell but my own special version of Hell where he had a pending reservation. The VIP list in my Hell is lengthy, even with him scratched off but there's plenty of room. Shit, there are extra special BlingHell areas reserved for folks like Swingin' Dick Cheney and that asshole from Blink-182 that started an emo band.

I forgot to report on my trip out to see some local bands the other night. I suppose it would be interesting to write about if I had actually been able to stay to see the band I came to see, (late start times the bane of my being caused me to miss them. Their guitarist said my hair looked great though so I figure the cover charge was well spent). I could write about the one opening band that I did see, (for about 106 seconds), that was so boring I felt my blood start to calcify as I watched them but I don't feel like going comatose thinking about it. I think the first band that played, (missed them too), is the band the lovely Mrs., Philito and I saw a few months ago that is fronted by a hyper-kinetic smelly hobbit. Very strange, not very good.

One notable thing about that night, as I was sitting at the bar ignoring the bands I was watching the James Spader movie, "Crash". It's not the Crash that won the Oscar, this one is about people that like to crash their cars and then screw each other. It was pretty stupid but entertaining to watch with closed captioning. At one point Spader is canoodling nude with some skanky lady and she's asking him if he wants to go down on the movie's protagonist, Elliot from Law and Order - SVU. Reading stuff on closed caption like "Do you know what his anus looks like...do you want to touch his anus....does his big car smell like penis....do you want to touch his big penis in his car" while drinking a Budweiser in a bar is pretty comical. Knowing that she's talking about James Spader having sex with Elliot Stabler just adds to the mirth factor. If only Ice-T was involved in the plot I would buy that DVD in a nano-second.

Velvet Lounge tomorrow night. Plenty of parking for your big smelly cars of penis.

Attack of the Coathangers

My oldest daughter has the grace and good fortune to be a true Yankee Doodle; that is she was born on the Fourth of July. The shared birthday is the start and finish of her similarities to Ron Whatshisface from the Tom Cruise movie. Speaking of which if anyone saw the episode of, “Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, where the guy put on the Ron Whatshisface costume and pretended to be a war hero in the strip bar, that shit was funny.


Anyway, as yesterday was a Holiday and her Birthday all together we had friends and family coming over to eat our food, dirty our carpets and drink our booze in the afternoon. Around noon as I was cleaning up the yard, trimming hedges, feeding fishes and the like I looked at the grill and thought, “Hmmm, I haven’t taken the cover off that thing since October, maybe I should take a peek before having to cook food for my loved ones on it.”

Its a good thing that I did as a fucking pack of squirrels had co-opted it for a vacation home and acorn storage repository. Obviously I had to scrub away any trace of rodentia detrialis and with a scrub brush, a grimace, some industrial strength Lysol and love in my heart I went to work on that motherfucker like Superfly Snuka on the Iron Sheik. Inside, outside, the grates, the lines, the handles and finally the internal super-structure where all the grease and nastiness do creep drip by drip. It was during this juncture that I discovered something of value to pass along to you.

Y’know the silver grease deflector in the middle of the bottom of a gas grill, the shiny thing? Yeah, that son of a fucking bitch has a razor sharp edge to it, as I found out when it cleaved off the tip-top of the tip of my middle finger on the left hand. So to frame the scene, I’m covered in grease and other grill filth, bleeding profusely, the hose is running, and my plasma is ruining my socks. Not a good situation. I headed inside screaming for the Mrs. to come to my aid, “DEAREST I HAVE BEEN UNDONE, ATTEND AS YOUR HEART DOTH ORDER, ATTEND TO THY MATE!!!”, (as you can well imagine at this point I had lost a lot of blood). So down she raced and with an exclamation of either, “AVAST MY BELOVED, WHAT FOUL FATE HAS RENDERED YOUR DIGIT THUSLY, or, “Jesus Christ what have you done now”, (I can’t recall which exactly), she washed, applied pressure and a clean dressing, (Bounty paper towels wrapped with masking tape), and dispensed first-aid and a smooch to calm my nerves.

Not having the necessary supplies to staunch the bleeding we headed to Target to stock up. My finger was still layered in the homemade and very large wrapping, now turned a deep stain of red and starting to drip here and there. I got a few stares as I waltzed through Target but when you’re fabulously and magnetically attractive like I am that sort of thing is as common as needing to fart in Church so I rolled with it. We got our supplies and a chocolate bar and headed back to the Mansion on the Hill as the guests were anon.

My madre’, who is a nurse, was soon to arrive and she examined my depleted digit and declared it, “gross”, and, “pointless to go to the hospital for a stitch as there’s nothing there to stitch together.” She butterflied it up and zip, bam, bing I was at the accursed grill with a latex glove and tongs of fury. Those ribs were putty in my 9 and 6/8 hands.

My mom is a pretty cool character about injury; I guess working in an E.R. for a few years will get you that way. My Pops came rushing into the house one time claiming that he had hit an artery with a power drill, (I come by this kind of thing naturally), and she couldn’t help but laugh at the little fountain of blood spewing from his index finger. He survived. I have prepared a visual representation of our respective injuries above, I hope my finger scars up as nicely as his did.

The situation got me thinking about my family’s propensity for injury coinciding with celebrations. At my seventh birthday party my, “friend”, Gary, (who posts here occasionally), couldn’t catch me in a game of tag using conventional methods due to my catlike reflexes and explosive accelaratory capabilities so he punked out and tripped me, knee-first, into a brick used as a birdbath border. 16 stitches and several hours later I watched him break my birthday piñata while I had to sit, lock-legged and mortified, in a lawnchair. At times I can still feel the tears…DAMN YOU GARY!!!!!!!!!!! (We’ll discuss this at length as we’re vacationing together next week).

Two years later on my birthday I was trying to shave the little blobs of plastic off the bottom of a pair of G.I. Joe ski boots, (the blobs clicked into the skis which I had lost rendering the boots useless unless they were, as intended, deblobbed), with my brand spanking new Cub Scout knife. Of course I was strictly forbidden from doing dumbshit things with the knife, (like boot deblobbing), so after I sliced my thumb wide open I needed a plausible explanation for the wound that didn’t involve the knife.

To this day I still have to hear about, “the coathanger that jumped out of the closet and attacked me”. At the time it sounded better in my head than it does now, (or then to my parents who were wide-eyed at the combination of blood and stupidity pouring out in their living room). Nine stitches. End of party.

My mom broke her leg on a family trip to Colorado. I have been to the Nags Head E.R. twice on vacation and my brother once got bit by a rat and had to get rabies shots on my birthday, (he was a continent away but still, he could have called between injections).

My beauteous better half inflicted an injury on her finger very similar to my latest on New Year’s Eve a few years back, (with 40 people on the way over). On a Satanically evil and disastrous trip to Maine over a 4th of July some time ago the lovely daughter reared back to take a mighty breath, (to blow out the birthday candles y’know), and toppled backwards off a picnic bench, landing squarely on her head. That put a damper on the festivities.

I can’t wait for Christmas, maybe I’ll get shot in the face or penis.

The show on Friday should be interesting what with the gaping wound on the mandible. How will I play guitar? Will my electric twanger be awash with gore?!?!?!?

Tune in to the Velvet Lounge on Friday and see for your own damn self.

The sound of chainsaws in the morning

Damn, the mansion on the hill got hit by something called a "microburst"!

We have a twisted up tree with some branches that got split right down the middle, it's pretty crazy. Lots of twigs and about a zillion or two leafs blowing twixt and hither, (not to mention yon), but compared to the neighbors we got off light.

See, Jesus really loves me best but he had to at least make a show of being impartial, hence the cosmetic damage.

Speaking of Jesus, the Flowers in the Attic gang at the top of the road who have a nativity scene up from Halloween to Easter each year got hit the hardest. Guess they need to pray more fervently.

Things are good with the band, we're playing this Friday at the luuurvely Velvet Lounge in the murderous heart of D.C. It will be the first time Saint John, (my exalted and wholly too Abercrombie and Fitch modle looking for his age older brother), will have ever seen me play in a full bandito situation. I'm looking forward to working out all my post-adolescent insecurities in that regard. Hopefully I can exorcise the pain of a million whistle or lose it titty twisters delivered by him in the formative years and move forward with a less psychically painful life.

In other news I want to murder a twitty Englishman who spends his days wearing Adidas shorts and yelling at little kids. He's a cock. I'm glad England lost to Portugal, I hope he cried like a kicked dog.

I saw "Annie" at WolfTrap last night. That's right, rock and roll motherfuckers.

It's a hard knock life indeed.