So the world, in fact, DID NOT END on December 21. I know this because I was sitting pretty with my roommates, in the living room of our house, ripping the shit out of X-Mas gifts. We celebrated early just in case the real armageddony type shit did pop off. But guess what? By 12 AM—December 22—I was drunk as fuck watching those same roommates play in their little band with a bunch of other totally alive motherfuckers standing around me. So… Yeah, no end of the world. Hurray.
So while we’re all alive, LET’S FUCKING PARTY.
Here we go: Sad songs you could totally get away with slipping on at a party…
Now, you might think this is a cop out, but it’s not. Listen to this groove-banger and tell me it’s not gloomy as shit, while all around foxy as shit. The laid back percussion, the lush synth atmospheres, and bright and bold sax lines. All this from a main track from the motherfucking VIRGIN SUICIDES score. Sure, “Sexy Boy” is a much more frolicking, get-down-make-love type jam, but we’re attacking from our patented strong & sad angle, and “Playground Love” works much better from that position. Those Lisbon Girls…
I probably could’ve went with some other, more well-known Grandaddy songs, but really, this one’s my favorite. The whole vibe of this one, honestly, sort of just makes me want to imagine myself as a weird, fucked up soul-vampire, kind of like Sean Bateman did in Rules Of Attraction. Dawson was a stone-cold freakazoid in that movie—I never read the book, well kind of, I did read the last page to see if it really did end all abrupt, mid-sentence AND IT TOTALLY DOES! Anyway, yeah, something about the slow, pulsing organ and the droning synths, just makes me wanna roll through crowds of dumb faces and scowl. Sometimes you just got to get really weird and raw in a thick crowd of heads. I also really like when he says, “I try to sing it funny like Beck, but it’s bringing me down.” Good line.
I think Trent’s written a lot of somber, distressing tunes that have been heavily disguised as something perhaps a bit more flustered, pushing towards angsty, unnerved, and chaotic; when they’re really just tales of desperation, isolation, and a sense of full-bore uneasiness. “Somewhat Damaged,” sounds pretty fucking vicious with lines like “lick around divine debris, taste the wealth of hate in me” and “tear a hole exquisite red, fuck the rest and stab it dead.” So yeah, OK, Trent is pretty pissed, I get it. What we’re really dealing with here, is a tale of loss, a change for the worse. “How could I ever think it’s funny how everything you swore would never change is diferent now?” Trent’s screaming about how fucked it is that everything he had come to know and have faith in has changed abruptly; guess it could be a lovey-dovey kinda thing, or who really knows. That’s the way it speaks to me and most every other human that’s had a relation-SHIT go sour, right? So how well would this go over at a party? Well as long as your partygoers don’t masturbate to the Garden State soundtrack on a regular basis, all heads are gonna burst into headbang city when this heavy pummeler charges out of the speakers. Get wild. TOO FUCKED UP TO CARE ANYMORE!
When was the last time you pissed yourself? Oh, when you were eight? When you went camping that time and got scared by the noises outside? Bullshit. Get real, friend; it was last weekend and we all know about it. We also all know you’re going to do it this weekend, too—starting tonight and carrying on in a consistent, free-flowing Amazon river of urine, until your whole mattress is saturated with your own golden nectar. Now that you’re all ashamed, here are some stories about other people who pissed themselves to cheer you up.
I was at this party when I was 16 and ended up in the make out room with a girl. There were a few other couples nestled away in the corners in various states of embrace, but I was blind-drunk so I didn’t really care. I was just fixated on getting some boob. I was also dying to piss, but I thought it might kill the mood if I darted off to take a leak and left her there waiting for me. Anyway, we were kissing and groping for a bit, then she unbuttoned my pants and started sucking me off. That was great, obviously, and I started to really relax.
In retrospect, that was a bad idea, because as I relaxed, my drunkenness took over and I was in that weird middle-ground between the waking world and complete unconsciousness. Seemingly out of nowhere, she put her elbow on my bladder and, in my drunk, blissed-out haze, I start peeing. Everywhere. It felt great for about three seconds, then I snapped back to reality and realized what I was doing. To make it worse, I still had a boner, so the stream was uncontrollable; hitting my face, splashing the girl’s hair, and leaving a mucky, little puddle pooled on my grey jumper. That was one of the worst nights of my life. People have called me Stuart “The Shower” ever since.
The new issue of The New Yorker contains a big piece on something called “super gonorrhea.” Super Gonorrhea differs from lame, outdated regular gonorrhea in that it’s untreatable. From the article:
“After a second visit, doctors at the clinic gave her an injection of ceftriaxone, an antibiotic considered by infectious-disease experts to be the definitive treatment for gonorrhea. It didn’t work; two weeks later, when she returned to the clinic, a throat culture again tested positive. She was given another dose, but it, too, failed, and, at first, doctors assumed that she had been newly infected. Now, however, public-health experts view the Kyoto case as something far more alarming: the emergence of a strain of gonorrhea that is resistant to the last drug available against it, and the harbinger of a sexually transmitted global epidemic.”
Eugh. Seriously The Almighty/nature/gods/Gaia/chaos/nothing/whoever is running shit? A new “sexually transmitted global epidemic”? Are you fucking kidding me? I guess God really does hate fags.
To paraphrase Paris Hilton, an estimated one in seven gay men in urban areas is HIV positive. As a result of this, I haven’t had sex with anyone at any point in my life where a good portion of that experience hasn’t been spent panicking about HIV. Every time I even look at another person’s penis, I convince myself I’ve caught it. I get regular tests, but even then there’s the three-month incubation period where it’s undetectable. I basically spend my entire life freaking out about AIDS.
Blowjobs were the only thing I had left, and now I have to make people wear condoms to do that!? Yes, I know you could always get HIV from oral sex. But the mouth-to-peen infection rate for HIV+ oral is like, one in 20,000 or something. I can live with that stat. Sure, there’s rimming, but that gives you all the usual STDs, and then a bunch of weird poop-parasites, too. No thanks.
And yes, I know super-gonorrhea attacks straight people too. And while it’s nice that straights have something non-abortable to worry about during sex (equal rights, yay!) the article handily points this out:
“Saliva contains enzymes that destroy gonorrhea, so kissing and cunnilingus don’t spread it.”
Get the fuck outta here. A disease that you fight by eating pussy? Congratulations, straight people. You fucking assholes.
I guess I’ll just have to wait for these things to come out so I never have to ever touch another human being ever again.
We’ve been stickingabominablesubstancesinside the Gross Jar for roughly the duration of a school summer holiday now (six weeks). Along the way, the following have entered the glassy receptacle of desperate foulness:
- Piss - Human shit - Vomit - Phlegm - Rotten vegetables - Drain hair - Santorum - Mouldy doner kebab - Fish heads - Lamb intestines - A chicken’s foot - Durian (Asian “stink fruit”) - Human teeth - An apple - A Biro (scientific control)
After a month and a half of festering, the smell produced by the jar’s sinful contents is now worse than hell. There’s no point lying, this is starting to become tiresome. Those of us who deal with the Gross Jar have developed a claustrophobic relationship with the jar similar to that of Michael Corleone and his petrified wife, Kay, in The Godfather II. The jar is the Don and we are all his battered wives.
Our noses are sore, our hands dry from being washed so many times and our self-esteem below zero. But, like dying soldiers who’ve become numb to pain, on we march. This is week six. This is a dead rat.