Two Tub Mantooth

So here’s some newly recorded material from Slices. We will be releasing two 7″s in the coming months. One on 16oh Records and another on some mystery label out of Winnipeg fronted by a few of those yobs in Under Pressure. This track (”Bottom of the Barrel”) was on our demo but won’t appear on either record. We’re all very excited with the way it turned out. I’d like to give a shout out to Sticky Situations studio for all their help with this! I’d also like to thank Jank, Tim “swill master” Sandell, The Originator, and of course the one and only DSM0KER.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

I’ve never been what you’d call a “breakfast fanatic.” There are people out there that might try to tell you that it’s “the most important meal of the day,” but these same people are probably telling you to clean up your act and/or get some self-respect. Well I think that anyone familiar with my “balls out” attitude towards life could guess what I have to say to these fascists. Anyway…

I had some pretty amazing breakfasts on this trip regardless of my breakfast-ennui. The first one was in Santa Barbara at a place called The Cajun Kitchen. I also have an intense and irrational disgust for scrambled eggs but I decided to get the Eggs and Chorizo anyway. While I was overall pretty satisfied with my meal, after Tillman was delivered her Jambalaya topped with eggs, I sorely resented my original choice. I tried to console myself by thinking that we’ll all be dead soon enough anyway, but then I realized that if I died soon, my last meal would have been eggs.

After breakfast we headed out for some wine tastings. Now, being the unsophisticated lout that I am, I’ve never really enjoyed many wines I’ve tasted in my life. I’m not really sure why, perhaps wine reminds me of eggs. Or maybe it’s because I saw the movie Sideways once and now the thought of drinking wine hits a little too close to home. Or maybe it’s because I don’t have very good self-esteem. And so while I feel confident in critiquing the qualities of various worldly pleasures, I am a veritable n00b when it comes to wine.

But before we got started, we decided to pop into Firestone Brewery for a pint. You see, that’s how they talk in merry old England. They say things like “pop into” and “pint.”

Now I can’t fault this brewery for their choice of a totally lame slogan–”passion for the pale,” but I can fault them for a totally lame Hemp Ale. Maybe my expectations were the cause of my undoing. I don’t know why I expected, or even wanted, a beer that tasted like fizzy bong water, but this is certainly not what I got. Perhaps that’s a good thing, but is an unremarkable beer ever a good thing? I should try to sell that phrase to Stone’s or Dogfish Head…

Our first winery was Castoro. We squeezed our way onto the tail end of a bar crowded with housewives unaware of their drinking problem and their husbands with that “dad on vacation” look. Being that I lack the proper cultural capital to describe these wines, I will say that they were tasty and got me drunk. In addition, wineries seem to love having cats around. Big fluffy ones that just love to have drunk Manteeth rub their bellies and ask them if they want some wine. I swore I saw the same cat at Peachy Canyon and at Midnight Cellars. By the time we got to the latter, I was done attempting to maintain composure and was scolded by some shriveled winewoman for trying to urinate in their secret restroom.

Cue bad idea #1 of this trip (although I’m sure smoking drugs and lighting off fireworks wasn’t a great idea either). Once we got to our hotel in Cambria, we decided to go swimming in an area that:

1) is in “the red triangle,” rife with sharks hungry for dumb drunks.
2) is clogged with seaweed.
3) has very very cold water.

After the first swim I was feeling pretty good.

After my second I decided seaweed was a perfect accessory to bloody death by shark.

And after my third swim my chest started to hurt and decide to pose for this picture that I feel perfectly (yet subtly) displays my masculinity.

After washing the seaweed out of my asscrack, we went to The Sow’s Ear for a meal I barely remember because I was still kind of drunk and very dehydrated. Things I remember from this restaurant:

1) Everyone sitting around us talking about the bible
2) Some kind of berry called “Ollalieberry” made into a chutney and spread over my pork tenderloin.
3) Bread baked into flowerpots

After dinner we watched an episode of Law and Order, joked that I had a fetish for people stepping on my head, and listened the sound of Tillman’s teeth grinding in her sleep.

A few years ago I spent some time in a funny little country called Denmark.  I studied there for several months alongside some of the biggest tools The Land of Milk & Honey has to offer.  These are the kinds of people that think it a great idea to say the following: 

“Aw, yeah bro, you know, I got off the plane and I went and got a Döner kebab (editor’s note:  he pronounces it “dooner”) because that’s just what I do!”

So immediately I pledged not to let myself be cornered again by one of these worthless clumps of flesh with flapping eviscerations for mouths.   Luckily I did meet a handful of legitimate human beings while I was there and to this day I hold them very close to my charcoal heart (it filters the ice-water running through my veins).  

And so three of us recently decided to meet up in Southern California for a reunion and make a trip up the cost visiting wineries and microbreweries along the way.   Little did we know at the time that gas was going to be almost $5 a gallon and that most of California would be turned into a goddamn fire-pit.  Not that either of these factors would have deterred us from undertaking this Quest for Beer…

Anyhow, I flew out of Pittsburgh on July 4th without much problem.  The only thing noteworthy was how I am still shocked that people sometimes still dress up like they are going to the prom when they fly.  There was one woman waiting in line with me that looked like she was going to a J-Lo video shoot and/or  a convention for fuckers who think they’re better than everyone who prefers to fly in comfort.    My layover was in Atlanta whose airport is a hive of Popeyes and drones trying to sell you credit cards and cell phones.  Some man proclaimed that I looked like the kinda guy who needs a credit card.  I told him he kinda looked like a hungover Orlando Jones and he made this face

On my flight, I was almost promoted to business class because one of my flight attendants thought my Vanilla Muffins pin was “cute.”  It didn’t happen and I was left wondering what might have been if I had explained to her the basic tenets of Sugar Oi.  Greg’s wife Karine was kind enough to pick me up from LAX (not pronounced Lacrosse, even as a joke) while he and Michael watched fireworks.  Now I may appear in print that I am a joyless man, but I assure you I am even more loveless in person.  While I don’t necessarily hate fireworks, I do utterly despise them so much that I wince with nausea at the mere thought of them.    I think a lot of it has to do with the time my dad went down south and bought a bunch of crazy fireworks that PA residents are not allowed to enjoy.  Anyhow, the display was going fine until one of them tipped over, pointed directly in our direction, and started shooting screaming rockets at us.  We can make the argument that this is probably the root of my deep loathing of fireworks, but honestly they are more like sharks or bears or light-bulbs.  I hate and fear what I do not understand.  But quite frankly I do not want to understand any of that shit and would much rather stew in my stinky stew of hate and stupidity.

So it was with great sadness that I learned that my friends had opted to go watch fireworks instead of picking me up from the airport.  I spent my plane ride thinking about how I would have to murder Greg and Michael in the Redwood Forest and leave their corpses to be eaten by bears and/or Bigfoot.   Luckily for them, Greg’s uncle handed Karine and I drogas for no good reason when we got to his place and my murderous plot was forgotten in a haze of fireworks. 

So lighting off fireworks under the influence of drogas is probably not the best way of getting over your fear of them.   Especially if they are all labeled with images raging gorillas and other bloodthirsty beasts–KING KONG EXPLODER.  FIERY TIGER FOUNTAIN.  INSANE DEMON SNAKE MADE OF FIRE AND SHOOTING ROCKETS AT YOU IN YOUR DRUGGED OUT STUPOR.   Later I ate a cold hamburger and convinced myself it was totally raw and full of E. Coli.

The next day we went out for Dim Sum for breakfast.  Even though I was familiar with Dim Sum before, it never really seemed like a “breakfast” thing to me.  Actually, it still doesn’t.  Call me old fashioned fuddy duddy (go ahead motherfucker, just try), but weird dumplings of pork, beef, and weird sea-meat does are not usually categorized as breakfast in my brain.  It’s a good thing that I am rather indiscriminate in regards to the disgusting things I’m willing to consume at any hour of the day or else I would have thrown a big stupid fit in the car (because of withdraw from the drogas).   

From there we headed for Escondido to visit Stone Brewery.  No members of DisreantiyouthhellchristbastardassmanX were sighted, but it was not a total loss.  The brewery itself is very modern despite a bunch of boulders strewn about.  The outside beer garden was fairly impressive, but also extremely hot.  We opted to sit in the shade at the outdoor bar.  From there I got the following: 

The Duchesse is a Flemish Red Ale.  It’s fairly sweet, but finishes with that weird sour taste that my comrades didn’t enjoy too much.  On the other hand, I got really excited when I saw it on draft. 

Next I had the Stone Smoked Porter.  There may be some people in this fucked up world that might think that drinking such a heavy brew on a hot day is not “appropriate.”  My answer to those people is that I am a grown man and can drink whatever I want.  I would have just as soon drank a cup of molasses if the idea had tickled me just right.  

This Smoked Porter is much more drinkable than the Rauchbiers that it’s influenced by.  The smokiness is kind of hidden behind all the normal flavors you’d come to expect from a porter in 2008 (vanilla, chocolate, coffee, toffee, blah blah blah blah), but overall I found this a little lighter than I expected. 

Overall, Stone’s was a pretty great experience.  Everything I had anticipated and even a little bit more.  The only downside is most of their merchandising strikes me as the kind of stuff yuppie beer drinkers tend to thrown in your face to let you know they are hip to beer. 

Congratulations.  You drink beer. 

Next we drove over to Vista to visit Green Flash.  After Stone’s, I was expecting a similar brew-pub setting, but this is not the case.  Green Flash is kind of just a warehouse with a bunch of huge fermentors, mash tuns, and kettles.  Very bare bones and utilitarian.  There was a table set up for people to get 4 oz samples for 25 cents each.  I tried the Belgian Triple because I’ve had their IPA before.  It should be said that on this trip I was trying to steer clear of a lot of IPAs.  While I enjoy the style, I’m by no means a “hophead.”  Far too often do breweries just decide to dump pound after pound of hops into the kettle without balancing it with anything else.  The result is too often something that tastes like industrial cleaner instead of beer.  

Anyhow, the Triple was pretty fantastic.  I was expecting to gag on the sweetness kind of like when you go to a birthday party and you try to sneak a whole handful of icing from the cake without anyone knowing.  Then you wanna barf because it’s just too much.  Yes.  Exactly like that.  I think this comes from what you’d call “residual sugars,” which this did not have much of. 

Next I had “Le Freak,” another Belgian.  They called it a “strong ale” I think, but this was much more like a Belgian IPA than anything.   Again, this surprised me, especially because it was supposedly 9% abv, but didn’t contain any of the bite I’d expect.  It went down smooooooth and all that other flowery stuff you read in beer reviews.

After Green Flash I was pretty drunk and I vaguely remember heading towards the coast for Pizza Port.  If I had been a little more in control of my facilities and was not afraid that a giant globule of drool would leave my mouth as soon as I opened it to blabber on about something, I probably would have gone on and on about how cool the place was.  In retrospect, it was kind of a gaudy in the way that every restaurant by the beach has to decorate itself in as much sea paraphernalia as possible.  You know–nets, surf boards, etc., etc.  Regardless, the pizza was pretty awesome considering it was West Coast pizza and the Pale Ale was a Pale Ale. 

After this we had back to LA and hit up some party in a swanky downtown hotel where I was told a member of Crom was in the room with me.   Later we had Michael impersonate a guest at the hotel (”Jimmy”) which allowed us to access the rooftop party.  It looked suspiciously like high school so we escaped without harm.  Some people in the lobby got turned away and asked us, “was it cool?!!?”  Also, someone tried to sell Greg some bootleg DVD’s of what I imagine were some kind of underground “fight club.”  I imagine this because he asked Greg, “Hey man, do you like fights?”  I thought I was going to have to brawl in an elevator.  Which would have been, like, so LA, man. 

Anyhow, there was a giant foot in the tub and I sat on it.

Coming soon:  Wine Country, Swimming in “The Red Triangle,” Burritos, Bigfoot, Forest Fires, and more Beer!

On Tuesday I was fortunate enough to escape the clutches of death for the 26th year in a row without slipping into the gaping chasm of mental illness forged by my family’s gene/cess pool.   It felt good and I celebrated by eating fatty german food, ice cream cake, and falling asleep. 

I could have had the opportunity to be a judge at the Air Guitar competition that was happening at Mr. Smalls that evening.  Craigums, former air guitar prodigy and winner of some prestigious air guitar awards, had been trying to track me down for a few weeks, but between the time I received and returned his call (10 minutes), he had already filled the position (by “The Voice of God”).   I’ll be honest and admit that I was crushed/devastated/utterly destroyed, but it probably is for the better.  Craigums said, “you know, I figured that you are pretty funny in the written form so you’re probably funny…you know…in the spoken form.” 

I didn’t want to say anything then, but unfortunately, Craigums, I am brutally unfunny when I get in front of a  microphone.  Sure, I’ve have my moments, but most of the time I turn into a bumbling mumbling mess of awkwardness and poor timing.   I have no concrete examples, but rest assured that most of the things that come out of my mouth and into a microphone illicit the response, “why would he say that?”  Arguably, I make a much better heckler than anything.

The next day I went to see the Pirates beat the Nationals with Vin.  He showed me an ingenious way to capitalize on the apathy of concession stand workers by showing them a cracked beer cup and saying, “this cup was cracked.  Can I get a replacement beer?”  I was afraid to do this myself because at 26 I still look younger than this barely 20 year old. 

Other than that, this entire week has been somewhat of a huge clusterfuck in terms of work and other things that constitute “my life.”  The ceiling in our hallway collapsed, work has been stupid, and Roboto can’t get it’s collective shit together to save it’s pathetic life.  Also, motherfuck UPMC for billing me twice for different amounts for the same doctors visit that apparently took place at two separate locations.  If anyone out there in internetland knows how I somehow was able to simultaneously receive a routine physical at Montefiore and Shadyside, please feel free to tell me what 20 different UPMC billing offices can’t.

Oh yeah, and tonight American Cheeseburgeris playing at Roboto with Brain Handle, Thrak, and Castle (formerly Pig God and Goat Crown).  I was going to have a cookout at Roboto, but decided against it since I was bombarded with grown-up responsibilities and obligations all this week.   I believe there will still be a grill, but you’ll have to bring your own food.

Also, the new issue of MRR should be coming out soon.  My column is about wearing a chef coat.

The following appeared in the December 2006 Issue of Maximum Rock n Roll. It was my 26th column.

COLD AS ICE!!!

In my column, I may come off as some kind of narcissistic prick or egomaniacal brute. I’ll be the first to admit that I have some trouble not starting my introductions in the first person. I can admit to not being perfect. The nature and origin of my various mental failings is perhaps more interesting than the manifestations thereof. But I can admit to having a problem.

The problem is not with alcohol. Nor is it with drugs or sex. My problem cannot be ingested, shot up, or fucked. It’s a problem that many MRR readers and staffers may be dealing with themselves. It’s seldom spoke of and those in need of treatment are often labeled as “crazy” or as “lacking self control.” Unfortunately, there is no clinic or therapy that deals with mincecore.

For those unfamiliar with the term, the genre “mincecore” is played and was coined by the band Agathocles. Hailing for Belgium, the band has been “mincing” since the late 80’s and has released a staggering, if not nauseating, amount of records. Probably upwards of 200, most of them being split 7”s. If you find yourself wondering how one band could produce so much material, the answer is simple; it’s easy to produce shit. Shocking as it may be, the quality of most Agathocles releases may not appear on any scale even remotely labeled “good.” I once boasted that I would embark on what I called “the Agathocles Challenge,” a grueling battle against rational thought and my own bank account, wherein I would try to track down and own the entire Agathocles catalogue. I was young and naïve. I didn’t know what I was getting into. It seemed like all my friends were doing it. I just wanted to fit in.

I never even came close to success, but I did learn a lot of things during that time. Unfortunately, I can’t remember any of those things because the same part of your brain that is responsible for common sense and memory is also in charge of keeping you from spending your hard earned money on another shitty Agathocles record. So I had to sacrifice one part for the other.

So there is a significant lapse in my memory over a certain number of months when I may have done and said things that I regret. This was well before my time writing for MRR, so I can’t excuse the past two years of shitty columns on Agathocles.

Case and point: I was purging my record collection recently when I came across a 7” that I had never seen before, nor do I remember ever buying. It’s an Agathocles record with nothing but a photo of a polar bear on the cover. The title is “Cold as Ice.” It’s a split 7” with PP7 Gaftzeb and the Calypso Queerleaders, which I’ll get to later.

Since I had absolutely no recollection of ever buying this record, I decided to save it from the sale pile and give it a quick listen, expecting the usual low-fi “mincecore” AKA “shitty grindcore.” What’s etched into that wax is probably more brutal and more terrifying than any grindcore release to date or ever will be. It sounds like Jan and the boys tried to do some sort of Godflesh/Industrial-type song, but turned it into some sort of mid-paced techno jam about wanting to be a polar bear. The part about “wanting to be a polar bear” is not lyrical interpretation: COLD AS ICE / COLD AS ICE / POLAR BEAR / I WANNA BE A POLAR BEAR / IN THE COLD NORTH POLE / SO I DON’T HAVE TO CRY ANYMORE / BECAUSE EVERYTHING BECOMES SO CLEAR / POLAR BEARS DON’T HAVE TO CRY

If you think that reading those might have damaged your nervous system in some way, just think how hard it is to type those out, let alone listen to them. I wasn’t quite sure what happened to me in those first few minutes, but I’m pretty sure my sperm count was lowered due to being struck in the balls by such a weighty mass of insanity/idiocy. I kind of stood there for a minute, not really sure what to do or what was going on. The insert tells me to “play this piece fucking loud and feel the cold!” so I did just that. I didn’t feel any noticeable temperature change, but I did feel the pain that wrestles within Agathocles’ heart, the desire to transform into a polar bear. I figured that if I was a polar bear, I would be no where near this record and would stop crying because I can’t fucking remember buying this record.

Or maybe Agathocles are a bunch of furries.

The flipside didn’t make me feel much better. “Maybe I bought it for PP7 Gaftzeb and the Calypso Queerleaders?” I thought. I don’t even know how to describe what the hell is going on here. All I know is that cowbells, maracas, flutes, steel drums, slide guitars, and tambourines are involved. Someone is also credited as playing some instrument called “door closing.” Congratulations, Nicklas Lindth, you are a virtuoso on the door. They also stick it to the man by not thanking “non-Swedish type font of Microsoft USA.”

The plot sickens: the Agathocles/PP7 Gaftzeb and the Calypso whatevers came out in 1997 on some label called TPOS, which you can reach through Trash American Style. The same label that put out this gem also released various Charles Manson spoken word cassettes, but also the Reverand Jim Jones “Mass Suicide” cassette, which they describe as “low-fi and scary.” And if you’re not in the market for a David Koresh “last sermon” cassette, you could also pick up The Pist “destroy the boathouse” cassette.

I decided not to sell this record, but instead mounted it on my wall so that I may always remember how I lost my innocence.

Ever since I started “blogging” again, I’ve tried to keep in the back of my withered mind the good intention of keeping the content somewhat Pittsburgh-centric.  Looking back on my recent posts, I must say that I’ve failed miserably.  I’ve no intention of repenting, mind you, but merely stating that I’ve fallen dreadfully short of my goal–just like everything I’ve ever set out to do in my stupid life (boo fucking hoo).

Part of the problem is that I’m eternally haunted by the fear that my writing will veer into the land of Romanticism, ramble down Sentimentality Road, and crash through the living room of Nostalgia Manor where it finally burst into flames.  Finally, Tamika Artist will be sent wearing a snappy hat to report on my untimely demise amidst the smoldering wreckage of my shitty writing.   “GODDAMN,” she will say, “LOOK AT ALL THIS CRAP.  YOU’D THINK THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAD A FETISH FOR PITTSBURGH.”  I mean, I don’t know what the hell I ever did to Tamika or why she would say something like that, but I assure you this is exactly what she would say because she’s a member of the liberal media hellbent on destroying my image.

I guess maybe if I had self-esteem I wouldn’t give a care what anyone thought of my writing, but I guess this is what happens what you are stupid, fat, smelly, ugly, and no one likes you.

 Anyhow, here are a few events coming up that I am involved with in some way, if not at least simply planning on being in attendance.

5/30/08 @ The Mr. Roboto Project - Black Dove, Gasmask Terror, Auryn, Drought
The last time Black Dove played here I came down with a case of food poisoning and I spent the entire day puking Gatorade and shitting myself in my sleep.   It’s unfortunate because Black Dove have finally reached the point that a few of the members’ former band, The Awakening, where they surpass all the bands they started off trying to emulate.  But to be fair, there’s a line in my life that separates “crushing hardcore with melodic sensibilities” and “this is fucking lame bullshit.”  Admittedly it’s a line that I arbitrarily push bands over, but it’s a line nonetheless.   

Gasmask Terror are from France and I’m assuming they play something in the same vein.  I will probably spend a lot of my time at the show wanting to ask them if they know the guys in George Bitch Jr. 

And after the show I look forward to getting some Mineo’s cuts with Robby even though he’s a bastard and does not return my phone calls.

5/31/08 @ Romeo St. - Slices, Pyramid Scheme, Mona Lethal
This is the second in a series of benefit shows for Book ‘Em.   This is also the four millionth version of this show, having it’s line-up changed around due to various reasons that lead to bands dropping off shows. 

Anyhow, I’ve been looking forward to this for a while now as Slices have not played a basement show in quite some time.  I’ve also not seen Pyramid Scheme in what seems like forever.   That actually reminds me that I told Brian that I would do the artwork for their third EP, “What the Hell is Wrong With You?”.  I suppose I should get working on that.   This will also be one of the last time you’ll be able to catch Slices before we go on hiatus until the end of August, at which point we will have a wide array of merchandise for you to peruse, such as shirts and two different 7″s.

I’m not sure what else there is to say about this show besides the fact that it’s competing with another all-locals show at the 31rst St. Pub.  If all goes according to plan, I won’t be making it to the Pub show because I’m a snob and prefer to be able to breath when I go, you know, most places.  

Then of course are the following shows in June:

4th @ The Rock Room - Straightjacket Nation 
6th @ Roboto - Brody’s Militia
7th @ Roboto - Condominium
10th @ everywhere - my 26th birthday
13th @ Roboto - American Cheeseburger
14th @ Kopecs - Tulsa, Plates, The Fitt
16th @ Roboto - Red Dons
18th @ The Rock Room - Born Bad

Too many fucking shows.

Slices are going on hiatus this summer due to Mike being on tour as Tusk Lord with fellow freaks Mike Tamburo, Hunted Creatures, and Chris “I was in The First Step” Niels.    John will also be “hitting the road” with Fashionable Idiots recording artists Rot Shit.   Mike “Ovens” and I will be stuck in Pittsburgh since we are grown-ups and have grown-up jobs and responsibilities.  Mike will still be moonlighting as “Eggman the Horrible” in Brain Handle, but I will be left bandless until the end of August.   And so I am offering my throat to anyone interested in starting the following projects:

Toy Dolls style band aka “Fun Punk”:  This is contingent on me being able to sing in a funny British accent.

Aus Rotten cover band:  I already know all the words, except for that one song that’s like three hours long.

Early GG Allin (Jabbers) style:  Back before GG starting shitting all over himself and was interested in being in a band that didn’t suck, he fronted The Jabbers.  Their first album “Always Was, Is and Always Shall Be” is perfectly snotty 77 style punk.   The aim of this band is to emulate the song “1980’s Rock’n'Roll.”

“EPs of RP” Rudimentary Peni style:  We’d be the coolest because we’d be the only band that would actually pull it off and then we’d be the most revered and everyone would love us and I could act all crazy and stuff and it would be just so great, y’know?

Youth of Today style band:  I really don’t even like Youth of Today.  Maybe if I was in a band that sounded like Youth of Today I would finally “get it” and I wouldn’t be such an outcast.

Warzone Womyn style band:  This would actually be referred to as “Abstract Covers of Crossed Out Songs” band in all the cool punk/metal rags.   Recently I went back to our demo and was impressed at our daring rethinking of “homegrown,” but on second thought, I don’t think we took it far enough.   If there is anyone out there that has never seen musical instruments or heard Crossed Out, this band could be your chance to be in a band with me. 

Oi! band:  The way we will stand out from the rest of the street punk/oi! community is by not playing any instruments.  Instead, I am looking for 20 to 30 males between the ages of 18-25 who have never done an honest days work in their lives.  I want the most weak-willed, fragile manboys to stand around and just scream in the most flimsy way possible.  While this is happening I will be playing samples of Tim “the toolman” Taylor grunting through a distortion pedal.

Grindcore band:  We run into the similar problem as the “Oi! band” above–how do we go about differentiating ourselves from a scene that is overflowing with bands.   I haven’t given this as much thought as I’d like, but bare with me here.  First I think we should gather as many crickets as we can and outfit their legs with miniature contact mics and triggers.  That’ll be our drum section since no drummer has been born yet that can satisfy my sick need for sick blast beats.   Next I want a bassist who is willing to remove his or her legs and replace them with giant springs.   All these fuckin’ grind bands these days have no idea how to properly and effectively “dip.”  You know, get really fuckin’ low.  And I don’t want any guitarists in this mix.  I just want someone to provide a guitar for the crowd to look at.  If anyone from the fuckin’ crowd tries to touch it or play it, we beat their asses.  As for singing, I won’t be doing any singing.  Instead I will go to Prestogeorge in the strip and eat a sandwich.

Mincecore band:  Pretty much the same as the Grindcore band, but I will go to Mineos instead and we’ll have at least three split 12″s with Agathocles.

Mineo’s Pizzahouse band:  I am looking for cool people to hang out with at Mineo’s and we will play the following instruments: a) large plain, b) extra cheese, extra dough, c) three cuts plain (if we are in a rush), d) pepperoni and black olives.

So if anyone wants to jam, hit me up plz.

It may appear to the untrained eye that I am a man who “has his shit together.” You may look at me and say, “that man really has his motherfuckin SHIT together!”   But let me blow your feeble mind and admit that I have NONE of my shit together.  In fact,  I am a damn mess.  First of all, my last three bowel movements have resembled something more like Custer’s Last Stand than anything you’d associate with a healthy crap.  Second, these boots that I bought not too long ago are kind of floppy.  Zappos.com lead me to believe that they would stand straight up, you know, like boots usually do.  No, these kind of flop around like some weird foreskin.  When my pants are covering them they look great.  Actually, no–they look awesome.   But I live in constant shame that underneath I’ve got these languid flaps of leather flopping about like so much excess penile skin.  And I guess I could look at this as a metaphor for the human condition, that we all have a little foreskin we’re trying to hide to keep up appearances, but it still doesn’t erase the pain.

Compounding this is THE BOX I have carried with me since the day I left for college.  THE BOX was supposed to a little filing container so that I wouldn’t lose my student loan promissory notes, so that I could one day look back upon them and weep over my folley.   Instead it became a receptacle for every little goddamn piece of paper that came into my life.  I somehow assigned immense importance to each little piece of paper I put into this box, that somehow nefarious persons may steal my identity if I threw them out. THE BOX is a lot like the pants that I am currently wearing to hide the fact that my boots are really made out of flimsy foreskin–it hides the fact that I am really a sloppy bastard with no sense of organization or fashion sense, my anxiety and slew of neuroses trumping both.   

For example, in this box I found the following:

-plastic turtle
-scraps of paper with various caricatures of my own face, drawn by my own hand
-flyer for a Fuerza X show
-hundreds of unopened bank statements, some dating back to 2001
-sand and leaves
-really terrible lyrics to a Warzone Womyn song that was never written

 Aside from the plastic turtle and the sand/leaves, I really have no recollection of ever having said to myself, “on second thought, I should maybe keep this Fuerza X flyer because it was a really awesome show and Fuerza X wowed me with their totally NOT mediocre thrashcore.  In fact, they thrashed my fucking face off and I will keep this flyer so that I will remember forever what band horribly disfigured my beautiful face.”

So I decided that I would “get my act together,” perhaps “grow up a little bit” and “not be a dumbass” by cleaning out THE BOX.   As I started digging, I started uncovering the time in my life where I was brutally run down by a car while riding my bike through downtown. 

I was riding my bike on Penn Ave. where the new Greyhound Station was being built when I noticed a car coming towards me swerving in and out of its lane.   My first thought was that it was going to run over my girlfriend who was riding just ahead of me.  My second thought was “OH FUCK NOW IT’S GOING TO RUN ME OVER.”   Most people describe these situations as going in slow motion, but I recall the car almost speeding up as it veered over the yellow lines with its driver slumped over in his seat.  As I swung my leg over, the car crashed–no, SLAMMED (because only slam is real)–right into my bike, which I had feebly turned into a shield.  The following is what SHOULD have happened:

1) I was caught underneath the car and dragged into the Greyhound Construction site.
2) I was crushed to death in the Greyhound Construction site
3) It was fitting since every time I have ever ridden Greyhound it has felt like a state of living death. 
4) Everyone would have cried and been real sorry I was gone.

But instead the car somehow changed course, clipped the truck behind me, and crashed through a fire hydrant, and finally into the construction site.   Maybe I should have taken this as a sign from god that I should change my wicked ways, stop listening to heavy metal, and become a good christian man.  Instead I took it as a sign that I really needed to go to Klavon’s Ice Cream Shop and eat ice cream. 

Anyhow, I found some insurance papers with the person who hit me and decided to ask the all-knowing Google entity if this man had died in the accident.    Instead of showing me an obituary, it told me that this man had in fact won the motherfucking LOTTERY in 2007.    Sure, it was only $1,000, but that is certainly more than what I got for my ruined bike and years of mental anguish, leading me to “not have my shit together” and buy boots that don’t stand up and look like foreskin.   In fact, I bet you could trace all my poor shoe purchases back to this single incident.  I should have sued this bastard back to the stone-age when I had the chance.  You see, I didn’t have insurance then.  And I’ve never had a car insurance, let alone even a driver’s license.  So I had, what they call in the legalsphere, unlimited tort.   At least that’s what I think it’s called.  I might have just invented that term.  I guess I could ask the Google entity, but that’d be more likely for a person who “has his shit together,” which we’ve already established that I do not.

So I sat there for a long time, perhaps longer than I should have, and contemplated the injustice of it all.   Unable to muster any thoughts, my hatred for Pennsylvania’s third most famous groundhog  grew like a black-hole in the back of my mind until it consumed me, effectively dooming me to a life of “not having my shit together.”  

Behold! The Face of the Eternal Motherfucker! 

LORD OF SHITSACKS–DELIVERYMAN OF THE RAW DEAL!

Here is a picture of Latke the Redfoot Tortoise.

When I look at this picture I cannot help but hear the soundtrack to Titanic.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve experienced “Casual Friday.”  I haven’t worked in an office for a fairly long time, let alone one that celebrates Fridays so casually.  At first I was downright opposed to all this kicking back/loose, but I think I’m finally starting to get used to this. 

I wasn’t sure how today would pan out.  When I came in all the cubes were rearranged to form a big giant cube in the middle of the building.  It kind of resembled the spaceship The Borg used in Star Trek.  At first I was a little hesitant to enter the OmniCube.  After all, I don’t want to be turned into some freakish cyborg!! Ha ha!!  But as I thought about it, aren’t we ALL already cyborgs, you know?  In a way, we all have submitted to computers as our masters–we are just slaves to the microprocessor! 

Anyway, inside the cube they were playing “the Chuck Norris game.”  Your team sits around a circle and describes you in the same context of Chuck Norris Internet Jokes.  I got the following:

“Greg Mantooth is so fuckin’ STRONG that when he farts he can kick the fart back into his stupid butt.”

“Greg Mantooth destroyed Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs because Greg Mantooth doesn’t need anything, especially motherfuckers telling him what he needs.”

“Greg Mantooth one time went to the Moon just so he can show the Earth his butt.  When he showed the Earth his butt, the Earth made a “fart” sound and Venus laughed so hard it almost peed its pants!!”

“Greg Mantooth can get bit by cobras.”

It was supposed to be some sort of “team building” exercize, but it just made us all feel uncomfortable.  We did something similar the first week when we all had to bring in pictures of our ex-girlfriends/boyfriends and we all had to comment on whether we would “lick it or stick it,” “Sport it, spunk it, or dump it.”  The Chuck Norris thing certainly didn’t end up erupting into a half riot/orgy, but someone said next Friday we’ll all be reenacting the “Don’t Mess with Zohan” trailer so I guess this is the least of my worries.

While this bullshit was going on, I missed the big shuffleboard playoff game between HR and Accounting.  These two teams hate each other!  I’m hoping someone Tivo’ed the thing so I can watch it later on when everyone is taking the mandatory “shot break.”  Quite frankly my stomach is not quite up to doing anymore Irish Carbombs this week. 

There’s an optional “Webinar” later about hacking into the Bangbus website and leaving a bunch of “totally hilarious” reviews.   I’d get in huuuuuuuuuuuge trouble if they found out I did this, but here’s the email I got about it: 

By now u should all kknow about Bangbus.com.  tihS totally THE best site 4 wachting slut$ get rammed by tehse GoRGANTUAN dick. cLICK hre for C1AL1S!!! run by teh bangros netwark whove also broght u MUNSTERS of DICK and BIG BALLS AT WRK (persnal fav) and GETTIN UR C0CK BLOWN IN DA STREETS and TAGJOBS and CAPN FUCKIN (erotic fanfic about 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea).  We will be set up in confrence rom #3 wehre youll laenrn how 2 haxxx0r into the mainframe and were gonna post soem reaely funny shit like “u gota small dikk dude bet ur mom liks it thoguH! hahahaha!”  Pleeease make sure u are on time and have ur things posted by 4:0 pm 2dayu.  Take a stand and dont let teh terrists win DONT vote 4 barack “husein” OSAMA. 

I just got an outlook reminder that Jamie Dixon is going to be in soon to critique our jump shots.

In other office news, I found out there is this secret society of Warzone Womyn fans.  I’ve never seen any of these people before in my life.  The group is a mix of dudes that kind of look like they’d be into us, total fratboys, and then a few housewives.  They just found out the other day that I used to sing for them and now they WON’T shut up.  Every time I walk by a cube, I hear yooour hair falls to the ground, yoooour teeth rot in your mouth.  Yeah, sorry IDIOT, but it’s the other way around.  This one woman keeps singing the riff to Drug Mule.  I finally broke down and blurted out, “DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW FUCKING BORING THAT SONG WAS TO PLAY?”  And to make matters even more annoying, they all seem to think we NEVER played.  Yeah, sorry, we were together for over THREE YEARS.  I think everyone in Pittsburgh had ample opportunity to see us. 

Then I get this…

“Yeah, Slices are pretty cool and all, but you guys just kind of sound like an INDIE ROCK MIND ERASER.”