Uncanny blog of The Blog's gallery of Pissed Pants

Drunk/Passed Out

Uncanny blog of The Blog's gallery of Pissed Pants

"review" policies

I'm thinking this through... I have things to review. i miss doing the haiku as well... so maybe I'll mis-spell out my guide lines later.

No Revenge

My dad died in 2007 and some of his belongings made their way to me from a friend of his. I wrote the last two pieces before I read this story of his, so it's a little strange to see how similar our style is, especially considering I hadn't seen or known him since I was 7, twenty years earlier. My dad was a farmboy from Missouri, that rugged sense of man living by his own will informs all his writing. There are two more, longer parts that follow this one.

No Revenge by David Brent Murray

I stood on the shady side of the saloon as the three arrogant Mexican gunmen rode down the dusty street, the leather from their elaborately tooled boots and saddles creaking and their horses' silver bridles glinting in the dying twilight. I had put out the news that I was laying for them in town. Who I am is no mystery. Texas Rangers get around a lot. My name is Fred Rooker.

My right hand flew to my forty-four and it barked loudly. A Mushroom of blood and brain appeared on Don Rodrigo's forehead, splattered his finely woven leather-trimmed black jacket. as he was falling toward the ground dead, one skillfully crafted boot still stuck in his teardrop silver stirrup. It happened so fast I could not help but fire my other pistol, the Colt Peacemaker. The slug caught the corpse in the back.

Don Rodrigo's roan shied and spooked the horse of his foreman Flores. Flores died faster than his boss - one shot from the forty-four in my right hand, the other from the Peacemaker in my left. The bullets hit him simultaneously and he flew off the back of his horse, his fancy boots still in the stirrups. His bing pinto wheeled and ran down Main Street dragging Flores' corpse back toward Don Rodrigo's ranch. Flores' starched black hat remained on the ground unscarred and untouched.

That left Gonzaleze, the one who had pulled the trigger first on my baby brother. I stepped to my right into the sun so he could get a good look at the man who had come to kill him. Did he feel the sense of disjointed unreality that accompinaies the instant death of a gunfight, or had he time to grow frightened?

Gonzalez's hand went futilely for the gun at his right hip. I shot once with the Peacemaker in my left hand and caught him in the right arm. He stayed in the saddle, his large brown eyes staring into mine, betraying no fear. I did not admire him for his lack of fear. Few men comprehend their own death in the space of an instant. I fired with the forty-four in my right hand. The slug crushed his left shoulder. Still he remained in his saddle.

I hostered my pistols and walked towards Gonzalez, murmuring to his horse to keep it from trying to save him by running away. Had the horse run I would have drawn again and put a bullet through Gonzalez's head. I grabbed the coward roughly by his short jacket and tore him out of his saddle.

My brother was fifteen and had done no more than look at Rodrigo's daughter with a smile on his face three weeks ago. For this Gonzalez and Don Rodrigo's other henchmen had ambushed Teddy at the Rio Bravo and shot him more than thiry times.

I kicked Gonzalez's feet from under him so that he knelt before me. He hung his head, maybe in resignation, or pain, or shock. I slapped him roughly several times until his eyes bore the light of recognition. I slowly drew my forty-four and placed it against his forehead. He tried to cross himself but his right arm was too disabled to permit it. I would not have let him pray anyway.

I dispatched him with a bullet to the forehead that propelled him onto his back, his arms and legs spread as though to announce to heaven that he was ready to enter. I didn't think he was headed there.

A young Mexican with thick black hair and worn riding boots was standing near the hitching post. He caught my eye for a moment and I asked him to get my horse.

I have killed many better men than Don Rodrigo and his thugs for much less. I hoped that more of Don Rodrigo's men would come looking for me. My sorrow cried for their blood. I confiscated Don Rodrigo's horse and rode toward Laredo to file a report.

THIS JUST IN...MAN

just got back from a trip in the old Wayback Machine... Stopped at Grace Bros. Needed a fitted suit. A kind "younger" man helped me with my inseem.

Bezzerker Demon of Metal

(please sing in "pig squeal" over generic death riff)


I write
This song
It hurts
To grunt
Death Metal
Is fun
I laugh
All the time

(chorus)
Evil in this guy
Evil in this pie
Finger in my eye
Finger in my EYE.........

I scream
Very loud
It hurts
My lungs
Death Metal
My kingdom
Rich virgins
And lots of beer!

chorus X 2

Brown walls

Every time I walk down this road I know there's a white light waiting for me at the end. This is not the road I want to be taking, but it's the one I'm on. Down this road the bustling orgy of life is diminished, left with a few rotting bums and winos. The end is a door on the corner of a sullen city street. In between a pawn shop and an abandoned, gated store there's a brown door. I open it, it smells ancient and on the brown walls are pictures of unknown people smiling and cheering in the city square like they just won a ball game. The room goes pitch black when I close the door, and blindly I walk up to the only thing in the room, the stairs. Forty five steps later I reach a hallway. Typical big city living arrangements, with the musty, 70's style orange carpets to match. The first three doors are 1240, 1241, and 1242. Each hallway in the building connects to a greater one that goes around the bulk of the rooms, and halls that cut straight across to the other side so that the effect is a grid.

At the end of this corridor is a dead end, some don't connect to the outer hall. 1253. Mail is stuffed in the slot and there's dust on the comm button next to the door handle. The peephole's been smashed, and through that tiny hole a dusty ray of sunlight points to the wall across the way. Below the dot are a few spiders, and graffiti covers it so well you wouldn't know it's brick. A big clock and the words "Time is money, no time left." I'm not sure whether to think about it harder or to ignore it for bullshit. Is that for me? Who's watching?

I knock on the door, in five minutes I knock harder. A quick frown before I put my eyes to the broken peephole. The room's never this bright. Ripped curtains surround the whole of my view, there's the edge of a bed on the left and open space to the right, probably a bathroom. Familiar shivers run up my body, grabbing my ears and squeezing out the brain, and as my throat closes a heaving sigh makes its way out my chest. Grip the handle, turn.

She's on the bed, knife in hand, and wild eyes staring at the fresh intruder. There's blood on the sheets. Here eyes catch mine. The sigh comes again, and I wet my lips before taking my jacket off, hanging it on the back of a wobbly chair. I sit down and light up a Lucky Strike.

"Justine," I say calmly, after a couple drags. She stares, here eyes crinkle at the edges, and suspicion is plain. I stare back with what I think are commanding eyes. "I had to run to get here." Her eyes start to water, never leaving mine. I bring a hand across my face, darkened by a week without a blade. She lets a sniffle and takes in my face, the scars and creases, the big girly lips, a nose bent many times, the high cheek bones leading up to hard, deep brown eyes.

"Smile," she says gently, a quiver building at the back of her throat. Here eyes flicker back and forth from the open window and my eyes. I bare my teeth like a dog, every one in its place. The knife's dropped to the sheets as she squirms to the foot of the bed, hazel eyes growing wet, and grabs fistfuls of linen, squeezing with an unnatural grasp.

"How many years?"

"I haven't been gone." The stare continues, her mind frantically working out truth. Here eyes close and hands brush across her face.

"Gone..." she mutters, turning away to the window. Her feet patter to it, I remain still. When she reaches it, she looks down at the street below. Paralyzed, there's no action coming to me. A slight smile comes across her face, looking demented in a sick way and those wild eyes blinking up at me. "I jumped the first day. Every day." She points out the window.

"You're talking to me, " I say. Her smile fades and she draws the curtains. Light still peeks through, her body framed by the dim light. It's here I notice just how small she is, always was.

"Where did you go?"

"I've been with you Justine." She comes across the room, wraps both her legs around the side of mine, sits on my lap with the uncaring strength of a child. Two feet away, her eyes bore into mine.

"Where have you gone?" she whispers, never looking anywhere else but my largening pupils.

"With you."

"You weren't here." The first teardrop is running down.

"Justine..." I sigh. She closes her eyes and puts her head to my chest. Nothing is said as my heart bumps against my chest.

"I haven't heard this... I have before..."

"Justine you haven't heard it." A great confusion washes across her face.

"Why? Why did you come to me if you haven't known me? I know your face, those teeth..." she stops and starts to shiver.

"I can't explain everything. You have to accept this when you come with me."

"Where am I going?"

"You already know."

"But..." she mutters. Her eyes come back to me. "I know you."

"You can't," I reply, a note of sadness coming through. She keeps looking curiously at me. "I'm supposed to bring you away from here."

"What to bring," she says, a sneaky smile reaching her lips.

"Justine," I say firmly.

"Go outside, I'll come down."

"No Justine. You'll come in my arms." She shakes her head. "It's the only way we're allowed to, Justine, please let me explain later."

Recognition pops into her head. "What do you want?

"Justine."

"What do you need?"

"Justine..."

"I'll know, it can't be done this way." Memories come rushing back in a blur, and her mind starts working through them. "I know..." she says absentmindedly, as if looking through a different window.

"You can't Justine."

"I know you're rushing, it's why you looked through the peephole before coming in. Who else is coming?"

"We're leaving."

She smiles and jumps into my body. Reflexively I've got her, holding her like a sack of potatoes over the shoulder, until she slips down to my chest, cradling her.

I push open the door and start down the hall.

Brimstone!

Skin is too soft. There’s a ruffled bed, and dirty hair, and open doors. She’s leaving, stepping down the stairs to the lawn out front. When she gets there she turns around and glances through the window back at me.

The door slams, the car starts and red flashes around the corner. Gone. Eight in the morning and the sun is hardly yawning awake.

Coffee is on the pot, and pants are sliding up my legs. Shirt overhead, socks, shoes, watch. Up and at ‘em.

Three steps to the open door, and I examine the room. There isn’t much to describe. A nest for birds to sing. White lights and offwhite curtains everywhere.

I make the bed before I leave, and grab the .44 under it. Turn on the TV. Ball games.

Open door. Get in. In the car, across town, past the bridge outside, and to the river with the reeds growing beside it.

There is no one here so I walk towards town along the river. It flows slowly, with minimal rocks to eddy, and not wide enough for crafts. Just sticks lashed together with rope.

It takes two hours to reach town. It’s a gentle stream and I paddle with a thick stick. An hour and I’m in the center.

There are a few faces staring down at me from the bridge. Happy eyes and smiling children. Mothers nudging them to look somewhere else.

On the other side a few follow, and a couple braves ones run down the river laughing and pointing and waving. I take out a candy bar and throw it to one of them. He goes screaming back to mom, who throws it in the trash.

Another hour and I’m on the other side of town. I’ve been on my back the whole time, shining in the sun.

Dash the sticks on a few rocks, take the rope. Gun is clean and dry. Up the bank.

The road is at the top of a mound, either side with a steep ditch that goes off into the river bed on one side, and the edge of the canyon that the town’s named for. Bad name.

This side of town is ugly. Rotten brains and bad drugs. This is where I’ll go to die, but not tonight. This trip is for someone else. He owes me something.

Fred is a greaser, one of the grimy men who stand on the crosstreets. Further out on the road and up into the hills it gets worse. Pink, good time trailers, and squats of unnamable materials.

I’m not going to shoot Fred, but for the greasers you have to use force. Shake their junkie boots a little.

I can never get over the cats. Mutant killers roaming the streets, some finding their last rope in the hands of a starving addict. No mice at least. But more cockroaches than you can stomp.

In this ignored side of town little boys and girls are byproducts of the reckless rejects here. If they don’t die, they will. Some crawl out of the sewer and into the white concrete forest down the road. None stay, because this patch of the world will stay on them like mold.

35 years ago the greasers weren’t what they are now, but this hovel hasn’t changed in a century. Fred the greaser become Willy the rat. No one ratted on people. He was a rat-faced fucker who would live at the edge of your scraps, suckle your tits until you threw him out 3 months later. This rat was immune to poison,

One night Willy was drunk and raped a prostitute. The Lawmen came and tried to take him. Police don’t come here, the Lawmen were local. Willy shot two of them and stabbed the other in the throat.

He took the whore from her pimp, and slashed him too. He walked a block or two from the road and built a home. The scumbags who knew him were glad he wasn’t cutting anyone, and in a few years time everyone died. Plague.

Willy lived, the whore died but the baby lived. Eighteen years underneath sadistic Willy’s palm. He was good to his son in everyway except he got drunk and beat the shit out of him most of the weeknights.

When the son was a bigger man than Willy his thoughts cleared. He grabbed Willy’s three inch switch blade and cut out his heart. Days later the scavengers picked over his body and Willy was on the side of the road naked until carrion and the cats picked away his bones.

You’d see his skeleton today if you could recognize it. Many bones to scour.

I am the son, and after I killed Willy I left town for a decade. Two years ago I’ve returned.

Lost debts.

The road’s crunching, feet numbing. Shoes feeling every filthy speck of this diseased place.

A mile from Willy’s old shack is where the pimps are now, in a four trailer congregation.

Fred’s is there. I’m going to cut off his fingers.

Pokemon

Don't fight it.

Mr. Friends don't Mean mucyh

It appears someone has been spilling and I've been lacking, so here's a nice long, friendly post.

Three PM is the time, we've just arrived in our hotel room. The pyramid, do not look unless you enjoy vertigo, or that sick feeling you have when the stuffing isn't quite done. You tried to roll that joint but it wouldn't quite stick, and when you called you're best friend he wasn't there to sell you your weed.

The joint is coming, we are drinking terrible tasting India Pale Ale. More suited for families gearing up on a long trip to nowhere. Ten minutes from the show and we're already much to high on cocaine. A mile down the mall tunnel, down the consumer raping gamblin arena, we pop up in a small resort town called Tahoma. There's one agency who owns the rental homes in the area, you'd have to move to a part of the lake no one knows you're name, and that place is south shore. And kill me before I live there.

High on Fire brought the pain, brought the low, heavy rock. People locked awkwardly, real people enjoyed as they could.

Converge came on, and I screamed every song back to them. Nate was diggin me sinc e I was behind the legion of Mastodon fans waiting to ejaculate on their worst album. I saw mindless moshing to songs you should be smoking ten tons of weed to. Emasculation everywhere, men with small pants, men with girly pants, men with pants to annoy a horse, and keep the liquid flowing through wrong days.

Crack the Skye is boring live, unless you're on mushrooms or smoked the ten joints you snuck in u nder your scrotum. People moshed, and people proved to me how assholey their tastes lay.

Dethklok sucks. Fuck you.

We did lots of cocaine that night. House of Blues is total dogshit, and so are you.

Fuck you.

on the cheap installllllllllllllnumber2

Power of Jism-Your Son Died Laughing
1997
price paid $1.95

I picked this up when I bought the Distorted Pony CD the other day. "Your Son Died Laughing" is a pretty cool cd. I was unsure weather I should buy this one or put it back. First of all some dick marcked it with a felt tipped marker so other stores in the area wouldn't buy it back. It is limited to 500 copies by the way...I feel liek strangling the chode who did this because damnit finding this thing is going to be next to imposible if I want another one which is in better condition. The second factor is that is was marked "very scratched" but in reality it was kind of dirty and may have had a booger afixed to it... the play surface was great and the only scratch was at the edge of the cd where there was nothing burned onto it.
As for what it sounds like... imagine if you took Neurosis' "Through Silver in Blood" and only paid attention to the disonant parts and if only Dave Edwardson was singing. That's the vibe I get from this cd. it's not easy to listen to and if you are one of those people that like to play nicey nicey then skip this reveiw and buy a spin doctors cd.
There was a mail order insert inside the cd sleeve which had other products which were available. I guess the label also put something out by Zeni geva or KK Null..both of these "groups" would pair up nicely for a night of pure fucking neighbor torture by way of a blown out boombox.
This gets my highest recomendations.

nature of the day

cutout bin...

I'm mulling over if I should add shipping costs into my "under $5" rule... it doesn't matter, I haven't bought a CD in months that's been more than $5 one way or another.

On the Cheap

Distorted Pony- Instant Winner.
Price Paid: $1.95
Place Purchase: Secret Location Alpha.


With Instant Winner you've got both of the elements that you would need to make a great CD from 1994, the noise and the rock. The easiest way to describe it is that "It's kind of not right in the head" and "A little immature." Both of things usually suck but when you "pony" them up with super mongoloid guitar fun and something that grazes the smoke cloud left after listening to the Jesus Lizard, you'll realize how stupid you were for not listening to them 16 years ago.
My secret spot for obtaining cheap ass Cd's always has stuff like this... I just look for something on the Trance Syndicate label (in this case) or some other shitty label which people usually like to write off as "part of the alternative movement". I am typically a pretty hard person to excite musically but finding this stuff for less than two bucks makes me want to skip through the isles of this store and possibly play hopscotch.
As for stand out tracks, I would pick "Dollar Pizza" and "Slow Leak". these two songs alone could fuel the Way Back Machine to send us to March of 1994. The down side is that you would not have enough fuel to come back "home". And you would be stuck watching episodes of Friends with your lame ass girlfriend, The one who won't let you touch her boobs and you would also be trying to get a job at a pretzel stand in the mall.
So to sum it up, Distorted Pony does "dumb" well. It's a fun disk which if it were up to me would serve as evidence in every federal supreme court case that pits popularist douche bags against OK scumbags. And if "Instant Winner" became "Exhibit A" in this case the scumbags would win by a landslide.

fearofthecutoutbin

I'm gonna start something where I review Cd's that I found that cost no more than $5...

the first two are by power of gism and distorted pony. I'd like to include more obscure Cd's but anything I buy for less than five bucks is up for grabs...or it was, until I bought it and then tell you how freakin' awesome it is and then you have to find a copy on ebay for $30...

Polyphemus

link... for those of you who skipped lit 101

AND...

The Hippy Video of the Day

Nice.

here's what you get...here's what you deserve.

Gaza-He is Never Comming Back

OK so the way I do this is I say I like it and there's not much I can do to substantiate it...If you don't listen to it you'll never know what I'm talking about. and if you write them off because you didn't like the earlier stuff then you are going to be a sucker. five times, I've listened to it 5 times since I got it. I don't remember song names or what ever... I do this for free and basically if I like it then I plug it.
What I am willing to do is talk about what I like about this CD...and what i like is it's vibe... It doesn't make me want to smash windshields as much as it could help me smash them... it is not an enabler. It is a tool. It's not "perfect" though. There are few things that grate against the inside of my cheeks. That's me though, individual results can and will differ. This is the farthest thing from being friendly music and if I wanted something that got along with me 100% I would have bought a puppy.
To sum this up, it's like angry fart bubbles in a tar pit.
You can buy this release in the normal ways... here and here.
It's on blackmarket activities, which is actually metal blade for kids who like being fooled and hate to think that they are buying records and what have you from a man like this.

I Really Gotta Get Involved.......

..... round here. whaddaya want to hear from the land down under? what have i got to offer? hmmmmmmmmm, thats debatable, probably nuthin'

Sleepy

I think the blog fell asleep

Resume

Blogofblogsofblogs of BLOG!

Oops

The more you play

The more you win!

Further beard growth