The Electric Wheelchair Demon

There’s this old coot speeding through a car park on his electric wheelchair, 90 years old going 91 miles per hour with no destination in mind, I can dig that. The carrot fell off the stick long ago but you were never in it for that, you just want ceaseless action. A hipflask full of whisky, a vehicle to propel yourself, and a cyanide pill just in case the fuckers catch up with you. Drink deep in it, my skeletal elder, make it so that even the crows shun your corpse. You 91 mile per hour son-of-a-bitch.

You probably had a ‘her’, maybe you still have a ‘her’. Does she have eyes or a bottle cap? Are your wrinkled hands fitted for another’s or are your knuckles taut from wall-to-wall living? You’re probably the type that has both, one hand for a hand and the other for a face. I bet she was beautiful, regardless of whether she was animate or not. If she’s a living thing, she had to have been something out of this world because loving someone that’s out of this world, someone with which you share a telepathy, is like nitrous for a vintage car. Your body is fucked beyond repair but that ‘her’, whether she lives or not, is a rationale for your unacceptable behaviour.

I want in on that flight, but fear keeps me from the cockpit. Don’t ask me to pilot a Boeing for the joyful damned, just reserve me a seat. I’m not qualified for the job, that’s why I, we, need people like you. A 91 mile per hour son, baptised with holy water, wrapped in a blanket, and left to dry in front of Satan’s fireplace. If life is for living, then you’re living for the sake of life, whatever that’s supposed to entail.

You’re a creature, a snarling beast with venom dripping from false teeth. You’re the guitar, you’re the bottle, you’re the euphoria of codeine sunshine. Beaten down by time but still beating the clock. That crippled body doesn’t need a dose of morphine, it just needs movement and ferocity. You’ll drive that motorized wheelchair all the way up the mouth of the volcano and you’ll muster up a ball of phlegm just to spit into it.

By god it was magnificent seeing you there, you could have mowed down a baby in your haste and you probably would have reversed over the little fucker just for the sake of closure. You’re the 91 mile per hour bastard of society and there’s a fraction of you in all of us. I don’t have a name for you, I never will, but I’ll know your headstone by its wreaths of human flesh.

The Women That Played The Blues

Vera Hall

When we talk about Rock n' Roll in its infancy, we're also talking about the Blues in its prime. Rock n' roll and Blues are inseparable, so much so that its difficult to pinpoint exactly when the stylistic changes began to emerge between them, even though we're very well aware that the Blues, the music of the poor, downtrodden, dopesick, and primarily black, came about first. The Blues was born out of oppression, its words sung as pickaxes cracked rocks, its guitars played by withered and calloused fingers. These were songs about poverty, drug addiction, death, and trying as best one can to exist in a society that doesn't want you. This was the first time a music was produced by and aimed at the working class.

Of course, when we talk about the blues, we already have a whole host of names in our cannon. Blind Willie Johnson, Lemon Jefferson, Skip James, Willie McTell, Lightnin' Hopkins, almost every territory in the Southern US had its own crowd of names and each one of them an innovator in his own right. But when we think of Blues artists, we seem to immediately turn to its guitar players, its predominantly male artists, those names that were constantly dropped by later rock n' roll acts like Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. The male voice of the Blues was the predominant one, but there was always a female voice there too, she was just hidden or ignored. This was a time when the Jim Crow South wasn't welcoming to the black man, and even less welcoming to the black woman. With a music fed by debilitating sadness, oppression, social rejection and the constant specter of death looming over large families, who more suitable to play the Blues than the black woman? A woman who, even to this day, still suffers marginalization on a wide scale.

With that said, let's have a look at some of the women that played integral roles in shaping the Blues, giving birth to Rock n' Roll, and changing the landscape of music forever.

Big Mama Thornton

Perhaps the perfect example of the overshadowing of female artists at the time, Big Mama Thornton was the first musician to record "Hound Dog" in 1952, a song made vastly more popular by the vastly more accessible Elvis Presley. Thornton's short-lived popularity began its fade to black as the 50s got its first dose of the faster and more spirited Rock n' Roll emerging at the time, but her influence on the later Rn'B artists is evident even today.

Vera Hall

Reintroduced by Moby's hit single "Natural Blues" and championed in the Alabama Women's Hall of Fame, Vera Hall's career is most celebrated for her large contribution to the Blues genre and the minimalist approach with which she took to creating her music. Hall stripped the Blues down to its rawest form, a melancholic wail and a hand clapping a knee for percussion. Hypnotic and intimate in equal measures.

Trixie Smith

Somewhat closer to Swing than to the Blues, Trixie Smith's middle class background and education placed her in a different place than most of the artists featured in this article, if only because her music was fully accompanied with a supporting band and conformed to some of the more popular elements of the music of the time. 

Bertha "Chippie" Hill

Melancholic, harmonious, and having spent the majority of her life in show business, "Chippie" was a true student of performance and her ties to the Blues are evident in her mournful vocal delivery. Unfortunately, Bertha's life was cut horrendously short by a car accident in 1950, ending both her life and closing the door of possibilities for a career that could have easily flourished in the early 50s.

Memphis Minnie

Guitarist, vocalist, recording artist, Memphis Minnie entered into a realm of the Blues that was mostly reserved for the menfolk, but she didn't care all too much for that. With over 200 songs under her belt, a voice that booms and croaks, and a boogie-woogie style of guitar playing, Minnie broke many of the taboos regarding female artists at the time and in doing so, perhaps laid out the idea of music as androgynous, her music poking holes in the gendered blueprints of music at the time.

Christopher Lee's Own Dracula

Throughout history, man has invented monsters as a way of explaining away the evil deeds that men do. A monster is the fabricated scapegoat for a deeply embedded sadism that has always endured humanity, because without the monster, man must face the reality that man himself is evil. In a world once weighed down heavily by a cross, the monster was used as fodder for clerical and political imperialism, where the cross around one's neck could serve as their only protection against unknown and malicious forces. Almost every religion has its own form of Satan, a demonic entity whose primary goal is to devour or corrupt, and without that demon there would be no urgency for god's protection, there would be no need to wear your cross around your neck. The French knight Gilles de Rais' occultism was highlighted when it was revealed that he was a child killer.The Irish were portrayed as cannibalistic pagans by the poet, Edmund Spenser, as a means to justify an English military presence. As word traveled of witchcraft in Massachusetts in the latter 1600s, innocent women were tortured and executed as brides of Satan. Man has always constructed the face of an evil that must be banished for the sake of piety, but what happens when the face looking back is that of a man's?

Count Dracula encompasses all that the pious fear and do not understand. He is hedonistic, murderous, calculating, but most of all he is in the image of man. Excavate even deeper and you'll find that Dracula is not only shaped as a man, but he is also an aristocrat, a man with power and influence, the very Antichrist informed by the New Testament. He isn't the violent drunkard or the lunatic, to endow such illnesses on Count Dracula would be to rationalize his behaviour. Though undead, Dracula embodies the lusts of the living. He is very much in control of his actions, he isn't the product of evil because it is he who produces it. Frankenstein's monster was the result of an experiment gone horribly wrong, the werewolf is afflicted with lycanthropy, and even Lucifer suffered a fall from grace. No such pretext can be offered up for Dracula, he is simply evil of his own accord. He is his own master, a libertine, and a symbol of nihilism. Once again, when we speak about Count Dracula, we are also speaking about humanity. We're talking about rapists, murderers, dictators, we're talking about submission and domination. Bram Stoker's Dracula is an evocation of primitive man wrapped from head to foot in black.

With a villain as magnetizing as Dracula, it didn't take very long for the infant but booming film industry to swipe him up and make use of the perhaps the very schema for the modern day bad guy. Universal studios are regarded as the very first company to produce a film based on Bram Stoker's Dracula, and the role of the the count was filled by the legendary Bela Lugosi, an actor who many regard as the transcendent Dracula. However, it is also Bela Lugsoi's Dracula that is most parodied and punctured, with characters like  Sesame Street's The Count and innumerable horror themed porno flicks slowly chipping away at the character and what he really is. That's another thing man tends to do, he spoofs away his fear and discomfort, and thus allows for the bastardization of horror. Bela Lugosi's role in 1933's Dracula would become the very first real visual we were given of Dracula (Unless you regard Nosferatu's Count Orlock as a Dracula film) and his portrayal of the vampiric count has had a powerful and static presence throughout pop-culture. Though, once again, as pop-culture tends to do, Lugosi' Dracula was demystified and grated down in order to be assimilated into said pop-culture of the time. When you think of that throaty laugh and collared cape, the stout face of Bela Lugosi comes to mind and it is his Dracula that we play with in our cartoons and Halloween costumes. It is this Dracula that the world forgot to fear. The same cannot be said for the next Dracula, the Dracula that couldn't be mulled for a generation of drive-in movies and late night television specials. This Count Dracula made us reassess our image of the character. You couldn't laugh and point at the silly old man with fake fangs hiding behind his cape. In fact, this character was nothing to laugh at. This new Dracula was Christopher Lee.

From the beginning, Lee wanted to portray Dracula as closely to the blueprints laid out by Bram Stoker, he did however put far more into the character than any other actor that has played the count since. Lee's Dracula was sterile and detached, a man with a severe lack of social skills but who possessed the ability to charm and persuade through subtle means, and failing that, good old fashioned mind-control. He was the true aristocrat and as such, he held himself in a way that even his posture suggested authority. Lee's gaunt, sharp features and frigid eyes placed him as closer to that of a walking corpse than of Lugosi, whose round face shaped an arguably more benign vampire. Christopher Lee comes from a school of acting that accentuates silence and vacancy as powerful tools for performance, so for Lee's Dracula, much of his dialogue isn't spoken, but seen. This was a Dracula that lived as a vegetable, a man who rarely uses words, and so Lee's profound ability to communicate using only facial expressions allowed for him to skip from sober and attentive to red-eyed and furious within a moment's time. This also added something to the character that many overlook when discussing the Hammer Horror Dracula films; Lee made Dracula bipolar.

In the Hammer Horror films, Lee's presence served more to the atmosphere of the film than to the plot. These films were driven by the other main cast members (most notably Peter Cushing) whereas Dracula was something of a landscape, an iconic image, something to look at in awe. Christopher Lee cutting a nefarious figure and remaining completely silent, a black cape casting him like a shadow atop the staircase of Castle Dracula; that is atmosphere, that is what Lee gave to the character. A ghostly presence. A characteristic that Stoker put much effort into sustaining during the writing process, and a characteristic that Lee, ever the astute one, made sure to assume throughout his time as the count. His portrayal of the character is made only more stringent by his screen-time. In a Hammer film, we never see too much of Dracula, we see just enough. We are not exposed to him from the first scene to the last, we are removed from the evils of Dracula many times throughout these films so that there is a weight added to Lee's performance when he finally does arrive on scene. When we are constantly exposed to a character in film (or any expression of art, really), our reactions to their presence become weathered and thus the character loses weight. That has never been the case with Lee's Dracula, he arrives, engages, and leaves, we then await his return.

Christopher Lee's own Dracula is distinct from others not because of his reputation as an actor, but because he knows that the face men really fear is their own. As Dracula, Lee rarely speaks, because all he has to do is occupy space in order to create tension. Whereas Baron Frankenstein (Peter Cushing) was debased as a rapist as a means to justify his death, Dracula requires no such extreme character modifiers, he is already everything the world is afraid of; a man with power and sadism. There was not and is not a single actor who could have played the role of Dracula as effectively as Christopher Lee did. There has not been an actor since who has embedded themselves so deeply into the character as Christopher Lee did. Though he became disillusioned with the direction the character was going in during the latter years of his career as Dracula under the Hammer banner, he still reinvented the character over and over again, each Dracula becoming more evil, more man, than the last.

"The Devil Has Won"

R.I.P. PETER CUSHING (1913 - 1944)

An Interview With Moloch

The word "filthy" is thrown around quite a lot these days, it's long been a term of endearment among fans of anything from hardcore to doom metal, even the baja hoodie college dubsteppers adopted and abused it like a cheeky orphan before hopping on the first train to "deep house", or wherever the ket dealers are hanging out now. For the sake of the article, lets concentrate on what "filthy" implies in the broad metal and punk circles. For something to be filthy, it should sound coarse, like dragging a fork across every inch of a chalkboard. Therefore, filthy should sound unpleasant, not the kind of music you'd spin during an anxiety attack or particularly grave hangover. Behind all those noxious vibrations you'll more than likely find a deeply-rooted malice, whether that malice is aimed directly at something in particular or attacks indiscriminately like a bus junkie at wits end doesn't really matter, there just has to be an element of balls out fury present. Coarse, unpleasant, seeping with pure fucking malice. Nottingham's Moloch punch all of those holes. Moloch are filthy.

I was new to Moloch's music when I first sent out an e-mail to guitarist, Steve, asking if I could have a few words with him, something in the form of an interview. I sent out that e-mail about a week or so after hearing their split with Rot In Hell on Bandcamp, the track "Sibillia" still ringing in my ears at the time. I'd finally rediscovered that filth that I'd been missing for a year or so, and I writhed around in it like a pig.

Not all too impressed with my tongue-in-cheek approach to dialogue, Steve wasn't going to play ball with me on this one. Not one bit. Nope.

I opened up by asking Scott Conner of Nocturnal Poisoning what he had for breakfast last time, so I'm gonna shake things up and ask your opinion on sellotape.

Nope.

How and when did Moloch get started? What kind of bands did you play in before?

Moloch started around 2006, (I think) with Chris and Rob who played in a hardcore band and wanted to do something heavier. Craig joined on bass and Rob’s brother started on drums. It didn’t work out with Rob’s brother, so Dan replaced him (having never played on drums before). After a couple of years there were some line-up changes with Steve, Henry and Harry now playing guitar, drums and bass respectively. We've all previously played in fast hardcore bands before Moloch and some of us still do.

Can you tell us a bit about the name Moloch and why you chose it? A lot of bands these days seem to be going for more blunt names like KnifeWomb or Scabs Everywhere, not that that's a bad thing.

It was named after a Man is The Bastard song of the same name. I had no part in selecting it, so I can only assume that it was chosen because it seemed appropriate for the musical direction.

Your music is stomach-churning filth, reminiscent of the early sludge bands with the punk rock ethic, there's no spacey synth movements or anything in the least bit Bowie there. Can you let us in on some of your major musical influences?

We're usually pretty focused on how songs should sound, and being rooted in the 'sludge' genre, it's probably obvious who our major influences are. Saying that, between us we all listen to a variety of music, so things occasionally filter in that way too.

What's the music scene like in Nottingham? Is it a decent enough landscape for the kind of music you play?

The Nottingham music scene is very healthy, lots of activity going on with some amazing local bands and venues. It's a great place to be right now. As far as the landscape goes, it's a city, so concrete and granite generally fill the landscape – you can make your own mind up whether we fit that criteria.

Do you feel as though the term "sludge" is being used too liberally these days? For the past five or six years it seems to have become a very hip label. Or do all those genres and tags really matter?

I have no idea whether it's being used too liberally, but I don't think it matters. You can certainly intend to pay homage to a particular style when playing music, but usually what genre you're assigned or tagged with is out of your control anyway.

One of my favourite tracks of your's is Sibillia from your split with Rot In Hell, are there any songs in particular that you're proud of or enjoy playing live?

I'm generally keen to play whatever new song we've been working on, I enjoy the process of gaining confidence each time we don't have to exchange looks on a part that we have to pay attention to.

You've released a lot of splits throughout your time as a band, what is it about that medium of release that you find most beneficial? It's definitely a great way to get heard and to support other bands.

Chris usually handles that area through his label/distro – 'Feast of Tentacles'. You hit the nail on the head really, but I'd also add that it's a little nicer on the expenses and is also handy to get distributed better. Personally, I enjoy how splits can be crafted to be a beyond just a couple of bands lobbing songs on a record, how songs can complement each other, stuff like that. For example, see the DS-13/Code-13 split 7", at the end of each side, both bands plays a riff which the other continues in a slightly different style when you play the other side. Attention to detail like that is great.

Is there anything currently in the works for Moloch, recording or gig wise?

At the time of writing we're finishing off a split 7" with the Canadian band, 'Haggatha' – released by Graanrepubliek, Dry Cough and Choking Hazard records. I think the next gig we're playing is Nottingham, at Stuckonaname studios with Primitive Man on June 27th.

Thanks for speaking with me man, anything you'd like to say to fans new and old? Tell them to eat shit, maybe?

Nope.

Moloch Bandcamp

Louie Is Dead; The Dangerous Garage Rock of the 60s

When the nuclear family wasn't huddled around a monopoly board , laughing heartily and enjoying each other's company by the glare of a warm fire in a tidy suburban house, they were engaging in vandalism, the devil's reefer, switch-blade thrusting, and homo-sexing. All of those public service announcements warning the children about devil-worship and LSD were all for naught, for the children were already far beyond corrupted. Not only were they corrupted, but they had guitars, drums, and a garage.

Old timey rock n'roll wasn't potent enough for this, arguably the very first generation of teenagers. For the first time in history, the gap between childhood and adulthood needed to be defined in some way. Historically, there was no room for the teenager, there wasn't enough money for education and so adulthood came in the form of a shovel thrust into the hands of a son and a pair of kitchen gloves onto the hands of a daughter. Everyone had to have their place in a highly paranoid post-WWII America, a nation made only more paranoid by its new enemies in Vietnam. The mother served as the rosy-cheeked housekeeper, with her floral apron, bright red lips, and her ceaseless Tylenol smile. The father? Well when he wasn't flipping through the day's paper with a hot mug of coffee, he was pitching marketing plans to big tobacco companies or thrusting a nine-inch combat knife into the throat of a Vietnamese child. The kids? Well some of them threw papers onto suburban porches, and others threw excessive and debauched parties on moonlit beaches.

The 60s had arrived and so had the teenager, and with them they brought rock n' roll and the devil's regards.

The Sonics

Often cited as the very first punk band, The Sonics encompassed the teenage experience with songs about insatiable sexual hunger, crippling boredom, and getting high on chemicals that could potentially kill you within seconds. Their original run lasted eight years starting from 1960 and would pave the way for the hideously malformed rock n' roll of bands like The Stooges and The MC5.

The Satans

Not much is known about The Satans, in fact, not much is known about many of the bands on this list, but what is known is that The Satans' signature tune may very well have influenced The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy For The Devil". Can you guess his name? Yes you can, it's Mick Jagger, and he basically stole this song.

The Swamp Rats

Listening to The Swamp Rats, you can't ignore the influence they had on psychedelic and noise rock. The band formed after the demise of a popular and far more clean-cut group called The Dee Jays (Who even opened up for The Stones). With their squealing guitar feedback and a drum sound akin to a brick smashing through a window, these vandals from Pittsburgh were playing a style of music that many others were too afraid to touch.

Randy Luck

Again, I couldn't find much on Randy Luck, but with a song about beating up your girlfriend, engaging in BDSM activities, and generally being a menace to society, I couldn't leave him/them off the list. With eerie, lo-fi guitar-driven spookiness coming right out of a drive-in theatre in 1958, Randy Luck, whoever or whatever you are, the 80s Batcave scene owes itself to you.

The Rockin' Ramrods

Fuzzier than a vintage porno and pulsating with teenage angst and heartbreak, if pop-punk were to suddenly implode, you could build it right back up with The Rockin' Ramrods as the foundation. Unfortunately, this was another band that fell into obscurity, perhaps due to the shadow cast over them by the more popular group The Ramrods, who were also doing the rounds on the garage scene at the time.

Fifty Foot Hose

Nestling themselves in the more psychedelic and experimental areas of the garage scene, Fifty Foot Hose sold acid through their unorthodox and 'hip' sound. Unlike many other bands at the time, the group had managed to masterfully weave electronics and vocal effects into their music and produce a far more intense psychedelia that was being produced at the time, a psychedelia that they continue to peddle to this very day.

The Litter

Unfortunately for The Litter, their popularity today can be credited to the swamp whore Courtney Love's cover of their song "Codine". Nonetheless, The Litter, arriving at the latter end of the 60s, were just in time to plunge into the bottomless pool of tie-dye and warm mud that was the Summer of love. While they weren't exactly the most taboo of bands at the time, especially with Fifty Foot Hose and others on the scene, The Litter can still be remembered as one of the first bands to handcuff the snotty and slowly dying garage rock sound to the peaking trip of psychedelic.

Outlaw Order: Death in the Wild West #2

Doc Holliday

1851 - 1887

Doc Holliday, born John Henry Holiday in Griffin, Georgia, 1851, was a man born with great prospects, but whose titanic misery and ill-health would see him stray far from the conventional life his Southeastern upbringing had groomed him for. Diagnosed with consumption (Now tuberculosis) in his early twenties, the specter of death would follow Doc for the rest of his life, though his descent into lawlessness would see him deal out far more death than what was owed to him.

Doc moved to the warmer climate of the West as a way to prolong his life following the diagnosis, and it's ironic that during his time wandering from town to town (and he wandered many), he would come closer to death on his travels than ever had he stayed in Georgia. A dentist by trade, Doc's educated and well-spoken Southern gentleman image would prove him both a valuable asset to saloons as a card dealer, but also a nuisance to anyone forced to part ways with their wage packets when playing against him.

Blood feuds, shoot-outs, stabbings and vigilante pursuits would become commonplace in the life of Doc Holliday as he skipped from town to town in the paranoid, gun-toting West. Both outlaws and lawmen alike wanted Doc and his associates hanging by the end of a rope, but each time Doc's almost supernatural luck would prevail. Doc claimed many, many lives during his time, but his own life, even though it clung by a thread since his early twenties, would end peacefully at a bar stool in Colorado, a whiskey in hand. Tuberculosis had already claimed Doc for its own and no bullet, rope, or knife would divert his fate.

Isaac "Ike" Black

18??-1895

If ever there was a man living on borrowed time, it was Ike Black. When a man's most famous image is one of him laying dead in a pool of his own blood and cerebral tissue, you shouldn't have to be clued-in to the extent with which the law wanted him crowbait. 

Now much is known about Ike's personal life, but his criminal record is well documented. The outlaw started off his career as a petty cattle thief in Kansas, but following some time behind bars, like many before and after him, he'd graduate to highwayman and gunslinger. His five year career of robbery and murder began when he teamed up with the infamous Zip Wyatt, and his affiliation with the sought-after criminal is most likely what lead to his death. Johnny Law was already hot on the heels of Wyatt by the time Ike arrived on the scene, and the two outlaws would spend much of their careers dodging bullets, cleaning flesh-wounds and collecting meager payoffs. 

Ike, easily the lesser of the two outlaws, probably suffered more for his affiliation with the raucous Wyatt than anything else. One could almost say that Ike was doomed from the very beginning, and even though the duo were lucky enough to elude the law for as long as they did, a posse would eventually catch up with them as they sheltered in a cabin in Canton, Ohio. Though Wyatt, ever the fugitive, would escape the posse, Ike Black caught a bullet between the eyes and would be buried in a pauper's grave. Ike Black's is truly the story of the sidekick who drew the short straw.

The Hilarious World Of White Supremacy Fan Fiction And Poetry

I'm a very open-minded person, critical and sometimes insensitive, but I like to give people a fair shake, even if they're brainwashed collectivist sheep who honestly believe that crime and cruelty belong exclusively to non-whites and that our racial history is somehow being "trampled on"...despite the fact that, well, it really isn't. These are people who simply don't understand globalization, and if they do understand it, they're blaming it for every little shitty thing that happens to them in their day to day lives. The way I see it is, if you have to look to your skin colour or heritage for your main source of pride, you're simply a sheep with no concept of personal identity. A worker ant, a limbless android. You have nothing to be proud of at all, so you look to your ancestors, glorified worm food, because you're too afraid to brave the bold new world where you're no longer at the top of the food chain. 

Seriousness aside, this blog isn't about politics, that's for neckbeards and bedridden snake people. I'd instead like to talk about possibly the greatest literary genre since Bizzarro. Ladies and ghouls, I give you white pride short fiction and poetry.

Now, as I said, I like to give people a fair shake, no matter who they are. I'm not a brown-fingered liberal who sees the worst in everything, I can appreciate art when I see it, and believe it or not; it wasn't actually as easy as you'd think to find laughable content on Stormfront's fiction and poetry section. I actually threw my eyes over some really great prose and poetry featured on the site, even if the message was simply "Booo! Black folk!".

But even though there were some gems to be found on the site, it was still choc-a-bloc with the kind of woeful and side-splitting material you'd likely find at the back of the weird kid's notebook. If you read closely, you can almost picture the authors scribbling these little ditties on their maths copies at the back of the class while scowling and humming the lyrics to some atrocious Skrewdriver track.

Hah-hah, Ian Stewart died like a bitch.

I'm not even going to annotate these excerpts and poems, I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy them without any kind of snarky commentary. I will however offer a short synopsis at the beginning of each.

Excerpt "My Struggle, A Short Story About Adolf Hitler" by Anonymous 

(The trials and tribulations of teen Hitler and his asshole dad)

Alois slipped on his boots to work outside on the farm, and Klara returned silently to her housework. The conversation had ‘ended,’ as Adolf sat glumly in his chair. Adolf was not yet ready to concede defeat.

“I shall not be a civil servant,” Adolf said. “I shall be an artist.”

“What?!” Alois asked. “You shall do as I say, or you will no longer be permitted to attend the Realschule.”

“If you deny me my dream of becoming a painter,” Adolf said, “I shall show you my contempt on my report cards.”

“How dare you speak to me in this manner,” Alois said, his brow crossed. His twelve year old son was equally stern. Alois crossed his arms, the smaller version of himself sat in a chair, arms crossed as well.

“You shall not be an artist!”

“Oh, yes!”

“I will hear no more of this,” Alois said and stormed out of the cottage.

Adolf looked at his mother, who gave him a sympathetic glance, but was conflicted in her own struggle between the two males she was to take care of. A knock was heard on the door. Klara opened it up and a bitterness came over her face.

“Is Adolf here?” A husky boy named Diederich asked, with no formalities.

Adolf grabbed his bag and ran out the door before his mother could protest.

“I love you, Mom,” Adolf said in haste and ran out the door.

Excerpt from the poem "My RAGE will keep me warm" by Anonymous

(A homeless dude is pissed off because he's homeless and white. He won't 'yield', even though he constantly censors himself. The fire in his heart will keep him warm, except it won't. He'll probably die)

I was deposited unceremoniously onto the streets
Nobody cares if I ****ing freeze
But they can dream on, I will not yield
I’m tougher than that, won’t quit til I’m killed
Cos I am WHITE and I AM PROUD
And I’ll always declare that with feeling and loud
So **** them, I’ll sleep in a ****ing doorway, but I will not leave
This city is mine with no reprieve
For the want of a roof, I’ll not forsake
My ideals – what more can they take?!
At least on this street I can say what I please
And don’t worry, I will not freeze
Because the spitting rage, the pride in my race and the fire in my heart will always keep me warm.

"My Very First Poem" by Anonymous

("OMG Jews are just THE WORST" by Samantha, age 8)

They thought we would run, they thought we were weak.
But they didnt know we would never be beat.
The Jew and his money, they laugh in our face.
They say they will destroy the Great White Race!
The Klan is Invisible, we know this is true.
Our race has many enemies, but the main ones the Jew.
He slithers and hides, like a venomous snake.
But there is one solution, cut its head off with a rake.

The Jews are the ones that are scared.
The Jews are the ones that are weak.
So grab yourselves some shovels, and dig some holes thats 6 ft deep!

"Hail Hitler" by Anonymous

(Hitler is really brave and an inspiration to all. That's why he blew his brains out in a bunker with his weirdly hot wife)

Hail Hitler

His time was precious
But he didn't mind.
He damned the cautious
Notions of his time.

He took control
Of a tattered land.
By no means was he a fool
When this man decided to stand.

His goals were selfless
And all too pure.
He saw the awful mess
That was committed by manure [Jews].

Had he not done his best,
So many would have suffered.
He put communism to the test,
And found nationalism to be assured.

Hitler is a hero.
For this thing I am sure.
We will think of him tomorrow
And all the days we procure.

Hail Hitler!

 If you're so inclined, why not head on over to Stormfront and have a laugh at some of their nonsensical rants and pseudo-intellectual diarrhea. Unless you're the type that's easily brainwashed, because they're very good at that over there. Live long and prosper, friends, and remember; don't just hate one portion of the world, hate everybody equally. 

Take care now.

Cinema's Finest Moments #5

Robert Duncan McNeill uses his rockin' keyboard skills to transport the gang back to Eternia 

Masters Of The Universe (1987)

The 80s were an interesting time for sword/sorcery, science fiction and the often ugly hybrids of both. We were given epics like Conan The Barbarian (1982), The Beastmaster (1982), Krull (1983) and Red Sonja (1985), all crucial titles for any self-respecting fan of blade-swinging, damsel-fucking action heroes with little to no acting talent. These films were gloriously dumb and blonde, and oh so beautiful to watch. However, muscle-headed as they were, none of those films ever tripped over their heels and sprained an ankle. If anything, they were more like the supermodel that plays dumb for the crowd because she knows that's what they expect of her. These films were visually pleasing, but had about as much depth as the infant's end of the swimming pool. Does that matter? Certainly not to me, sir, I embrace the sparkly cretinism and shiny colours, and so should you.

However, sometimes there comes a film whose idiocy isn't the result of a pina colada stained screenplay in the greasy hands of a seedy director, but rather the child of a shameful urgency to produce something that "the kids" will "totally dig". The latter is most certainly the case with Masters Of The Universe (1987).

I'm not going to go into too much detail with regards to the plot, but I'll say this above all else; when you have a sandbox for creativity in the setting of He-Man's world of Eternia, why the fuck would you set the majority of the film in present day Earth? Who in Hermes' balls decided to take a potentially epic sword and sorcery flick and turn it into a teenage love story that just so happens to involve rebel warriors from another dimension? I mean, that plot sounds kind of alright, if it had been executed well, but it wasn't, not at all. Masters Of The Universe has its moments, but overall, the setting of the film is like a beautiful girl covered from head to toe in fake tan. Something that could have been so, so pleasing, but ultimately let itself down by trying too hard to be chic.

Now, there is however one saving grace to this film that comes directly after the boilerplate "all is lost" scene. This isn't one of those game changing moments that sees the film cartwheel back into action though, rather it seems to accept just how fucking dazed it is and decides to plunge even deeper into the plasma pool, just 'cause. 

Robert Duncan McNeill plays your template 80's nu-wave kayboard player with no real interests other than his musical career and bangin' girlfriend (Played by Courtney Cox). Now if you've ever seen a PG flick from the 80s, you'll already know that it's characters like McNeill's that always seem to prove themselves useful towards the end of the film, while remaining mostly dumb and vacant up until that very point. In this case, He-Man (Dolph Lundgren) has been captured by the evil (and somewhat less effeminate than his cartoon counterpart) Skeletor, and it's up to the rest of the gang to try and find a way to return to Eternia and save him before the evil ruler breaks He-Man's spirit via one hell of a BDSM whipping session. 

But oh no, the Earth stranded gang are no longer in possession of the cosmic key which allows them to transport from dimension to dimension. How are they to save He-Man now? Oh, don't you fucking worry, Robert Duncan McNeill plays the keyboard and thus can mimic the musical tones released by the cosmic key on his pissy Rhodes electric piano. And that's exactly what happens. Gwildor the scientist dwarf invested years worth of time into creating a transdimensional key, an invention the likes of which had never been seen in the incomparably advanced world of Eternia, but a boorish American nu-wave kid saves the day with his crappy, dated keyboard, and manages to transport the rebel warriors back to Eternia just in time to save He-Man from a somewhat homoerotic doom.

Well done, Hollywood. Well fucking done.

A Love Letter to Tracy Tracy

My beloved Tracy Tracy,

Even now, nearly two decades since I first heard your delicate and hypnotic croon on the soundtrack to Dumb & Dumber, I still find myself completely entranced by it. I was but a child then, infantile and naive to the world around me, but now, as an adult, I can still hear you. I hear you every day. I hear you every night in my dreams. 

I don't even care that Morrisey wore your band's t-shirt, not even that could rid my heart of those perfect, gemstone eyes. Morrisey could have even joined The Primitives and I'd still be unable to remove you from this special place in my soul that you inhabit. You're a permanent resident in the Costa Del Liam. You own the security key card to the door to my feelings.

I know there's quite an age difference between us, considering The Primitives disbanded close to my first birthday, but that matters little to me. Time comes and goes, but for you; I've all the time in the world. I'm dope sick on you, Tracy Tracy, I want to pick you roses from the botanic gardens of my otherwise black and decrepit heart. You are a heavenly opiate, one from which I simply cannot detox.

You probably have a husband by now, and if that's true, I will take my leave knowing that you are content with love. However, I am not entirely sealed away to the prospect of fighting your probable husband to the death in order to win your heart. If that was your wish, I would tear your husband's heart from his chest and drain every last drop of you from it. You are my kind of wonderful, Tracy Tracy, and I am not above cannibalism. 

You are to me what those daffodils were to Wordsworth; wonderful, captivating, magnetic. You know that I'll get messed up too with you. Na na na na na...

Yours entirely,

Liam.

"Ram Jam Is The Bastard..."; 5 Powerviolence Bands For Chewing Glass To.

Being new to Powerviolence, it's hard for me to engage in conversation with anyone online about the music because it appears as though if you haven't been clued-in since the very inception of the genre, you're just a fucking runny-nosed poser. Now, that assumption is purely based on the needlessly pretentious blather being spewed on Facebook pages like "I Heart Powerviolence" or "I Hate Powerviolence", so maybe it's not fair of me to assume that the majority of Powerviolence fans are stuck-up sk8r boys who ditched Blink-182 when girls started wearing snapbacks and hardcore tees. So, call me out if you will, but this is what I think of the music:

Powerviolence is the closest thing to "real punk" there is right now. Sure, it borrows heavily from Sludge and Grindcore, but punk has always been derivative, that's not a bad thing in the least. It's filthy, it's stinking and you could OD on the fucking stuff if you're not too careful. The music is stripped down to the bone and accentuates all the most primitive and ugly dispositions of underground punk and metal. It is, in short, the sociopath arsonist that comes out at night when Sludge has finally nodded off on its piss-stained mattress. Here are some bands you should look into if you're not both soft and anemic.

Cave State

The California-based Cave State have been breaking faces on the internet and their respective local scene this year with the release of their self-titled slab of heinous filth. If you're new to Powerviolence, then this, in my opinion, is where you start. Fuck the old guard, Cave State come at you like Abdullah The Butcher with a crazy look in his eyes and shards of glass sellotaped to his fingers.

Sea Of Shit

Sea Of Shit are the sound of opiate withdrawal in a swollen and sweaty Indonesian prison. It's caged aggression at its very best, like a snarling, rabies-infected dog with no front legs. Downtrodden and pissed off Powerviolence that spits venomous Sludge right in your face where physical assault fails.

Witch Cult

Despite being pansies and quitting while they had a pretty good thing going, in their short run, Witch Cult put out some of the most disgraceful noise you could ask for. Their self titled record is nothing but wall-to-wall angry and should be a staple part of your bulimic Powerdiet.

Sex Prisoner

Perhaps my favourite of the lot, Sex Prisoner don't seem to bother too much with the tortured artist or bleeding heart liberal gimmicks. Their only mission appears to be to make sure everyone in the room is bleeding profusely from their faces and vomiting into their pint glasses. Stomach churning, fist-to-jaw brutality from Tucson, Arizona. They'd quite happily show up to your little sister's communion, spit right in her face and take whatever cash your aunts and uncles reluctantly handed over to her.

Water Torture

Probably one of the most name-dropped of the bands on the list, and rightly so, Water Torture have all the charm of the drunk uncle that shows up at Christmas dinner with a chronic nosebleed, an 8-ball and his favourite switchblade to show the kids. With music that sound like a junkyard mechanophilia gang bang and a vocalist who probably isn't on speaking terms with his mum, you know Water Torture could easily be the chosen few.

History's Craziest Assholes: Caligula (12 - 41 AD)

Caligula. Roman emperor and grade A bastard.

Being a Roman emperor was, I imagine, akin to being a rock star. People didn't expect much of you, any decisions you did make were probably nonsensical and self-destructive, and you were more interested in sodomizing your chamber maid or boy slave with a fish than addressing your thousands of devotees. Despite being the holy land that it is now, Rome's soil is absolutely sodden with blood and semen, and is haunted by the ghosts of the raped, tortured, executed and terminally drunk. Historically, Rome made the fictional realms of Sodom and Gomorrah sound like Disney land or the more family orientated Spanish resorts like Puerto Pollensa, the place was a fucking mess. A glorious mess, a picturesque mess, but essentially a sociopath's playground, especially if you just so happened to own the whole fucking coop.

Caligula is a pretty adorable name when you think about it. His father, Germanicus, would take his son with him on military campaigns and would kit him out with child-sized solider garb. His name comes from the Latin word for "Little boots". D'awh.

Except it's not "D'awh". Not one fucking bit.

I'll spare you Caligula's rise to glory tale because unless you ignored your history books in secondary school, you're probably already clued in well enough. And believe it or not, he's probably one of the few Roman emperors who didn't poison, execute and fuck his way to the throne. He did, however, make up for that temporary prudence by descending into ten tonnes of horseshit insanity within six months of his rule.

Like all ruthless tyrants, Caligula needed to put some reasoning behind his blood-spattered agenda (If there ever really was an agenda at hand), so the only sensible way for him to impose his dominance over everyone was to present himself as a demi-god, right? He had temples erected for his own worship, he dressed up as characters like Zeus and Hercules and he even had the heads removed from god statues and replaced with his own. That's the kind of egotistical behaviour reserved for weekend warrior salary slaves and Yngwie Malmsteen. It's hard to imagine that the people of Rome actually hailed him as an earthbound deity, because they probably didn't, but when a ruler as crazy as Caligula can have your kids pumped full of hemlock and decapitated with a snap of his fingers, I can guarantee the Roman people put on some Oscar-worthy facades. In fact, it appears as though the only living thing that Caligula actually gave half a shit about was his horse, Incitatus,who he wanted to appoint as a member of the senate. I'd make a joke about horseplay here, but no, that's a bit too indulgent.

When he wasn't presenting himself as a god and spending excessive amounts of dough on beheading statues and turning his chamber into a brothel, you'd more than likely find Caligula slinging his dick around like a yo-yo. Story has it that not only did Cali have a particular fancy for the wives of other men, but he also apparently loved to play doctor and nurse with his own sisters. Oh, but that was only when he wasn't whoring them out in his brothel palace. Those poor girls must have seen more soldiers than Hitler, but hey, that's what you get for sticking around a brother who, within a year, had gone from a halfway decent man of the soil to a frothing psychopath with a dwindling coin purse and a swelling body count. The man had members of an audience thrown into the arena to be eaten by lions because he felt like it. This is the kind of man we're dealing with.

Of course, like many emperors before and after him, Caligula's short reign was ended by the knife. If his four years of tyranny, perversion and cruelty wasn't justification enough to have his head roll, it was his decision to abandon Rome in favour of Egypt in order to be praised as a living god there that set off the conspiracy to skull fuck the young emperor. You know you've turned into a massive sea beast prick when it's your own bodyguards that are the ones that end up stabbing you like the foil of a microwave chicken Korma.

So, to summarize; we've got spontaneous murder, disgracefully excessive spending, a monumental god-complex, constant fooling around with married women, whoring out his own sisters, making his prized horse a priest and member of the senate, and acting so needlessly rotten that your own bodyguards want your body mutilated. 

On a scale of 1 to 10 on the crazy-o-meter, Caligula is a Gary Busey. 

137 Stuffs To Do This Summer (Part One)

Prompted by an article on Parentables entitled "137 Ways to Pamper Yourself, Lift Your Spirits, Or Recharge Your Life", I decided to use it as a template for a list of 137 you can do this Summer, as recommended by TMINI. If you even attempt to live your Summer outside of this article, you're going to have a woeful time. You won't have that Summer romance, you won't dance in the moonlight, you won't create memories, you'll just rot away in boredom. Follow my advice and we can all enjoy ourselves. Stock images are way fun.

Connect

1. Play kiss chase with the children down the road.
2. Get someone's number off Facebook and text them repeatedly.
3. Grimace at moving cars.
4. Send Snapchats of your genitals with smiley faces to all of your contacts.
5. Go to a fetish club night and become someone's rotten little toilet servant.
6. Start a poke war with the person sitting next to you on the bus.
7. Explore your sexuality with willing participants in a house boat.
8. Surprise your friends with free ecstasy in their drinks.

Aromatherapy

9. Stand outside petrol stations all day.
10. Go to gigs and sniff the drummer's seat as soon as they've finished.
11. Start huffing solvents.
12. Singe your eyebrows, inhale deeply the essence of death fart.
13. Book a plot of land on Courtney Love's arse for a week.
14. Stay inside a portable toilet on a construction site for as long as you can without getting caught. This doubles as a game.
15. Toast bread until there's nothing left of it to toast.

Water Activities

16. Go to the fishy museum and put your hands in the water.

17. Play exclusively in the shallow end of the swimming pool with all the infants.

18. Arm bands as casual wear.
19. Run through the streets roaring and crying after letting shampoo run into your eyes. Attract as much attention as possible.
20. Swimming caps as casual wear.
21. Take your boogie board to the beach and try to drown.
22. Take a bath with your toys and realize that there's nothing left for you here.

Touch

23. Copulation.
24. Sit on your hand until it's numb, use it to satisfy self in the library.
25. Blare "My Favourite Game" by The Cardigans and allow yourself to be sexually humiliated by someone you met on the Internet. See rotten toilet servant/crying breast milk seizures.
26. Put your head in one of those fishy pedicure tubs that rich girls use.
27. Trade blows with your local drunkard.
28. Lather yourself with baby oil and do spins on your lover.
29. Objectify everyone you meet.
30. Torture your nipples with car jumper cables in front of your parents.

Spa or At-Home Treatments

31. Ask people at the beach for back rubs.

32. Give people at the beach back rubs.

33. Rub ginger in your eyes.

34. Take loads of Feminax with lucozade and get sick on your doctor's desk.

35. Roll around in mud until you're beautiful like Liv Tyler.

36. Let snails crawl all over you body. It has to do something.

Taste

37. See how much salt you can ingest in one sitting.

38. Take your shirt off, lay on your dinner plate and see if you can absorb the whole fucking thing through osmosis. 

39. Make a pie out of old teabags and powdered toothpaste.

40. Lick someone you're not supposed to.

41. Go to the fetish club again and see what the man babies taste like.

42. Adopt the paleo diet, except completely nullify its health benefits by taking up the flesh-eating drug Krokodil.

43. See how many batteries you can fit in your mouth.

Baby Elephant Craic

44. Find Lenny Kravitz.

45. Drink through your nose.

46. Make deep guttural noises.

47. Get your mother to bathe you in public.

48. Use your nose to guide food to your mouth.

49. Never forget.

Outdoor Rest and Relaxation

50. Run through the streets wearing nothing but sparklers.

51. Build a beaver dam on the main road.

52. Pretend to be your favourite animal at a funeral you weren't invited to (Extra points for just saying the name of your animal over and over again, loudly.)

53. Discuss the symbolism of pine cones with a pine cone.

54. Stare at people from the safety of the trees.

55. Horseback bass solos.

56. Chase after sheep around their field until they die.

57. Kiss in the rain until it becomes really uncomfortable for both of you and it gets to the point where one of you actually asks the other to stop.

58. Walk into the ocean, resurface years later as a scaly harbinger of doom.

Look at how pissed off that baby is.

Indoor Rest and Relaxation

59. Hypnotic drug rituals.

60. Living room archery.

61. Paint your nightmares on the walls.

62. Arts and crafts with stolen wedding rings and finger paint.

63. Never sleep.

64. Slowly withdraw into yourself.

65. Film pornography. Employ terrible stock circus music in the video editing process. 

66. Add to your prosthetic limb collection.

67. Make a fort with your little cousins/siblings, viciously defend it from them. 

68. Fake your own death in a bath tub with a bucket of water and a few sachets of tomato sauce.

69. Communicate with the ghosts.

70. Reproduce inequality.

To Be Continued...