Death metal bands have the dumbest names

While I'm keeping a bit of low profile, waiting for the buzz from the Stupid & Contagious World Exclusive to die down, I thought I'd turn my attention to a topic I haven't covered in at least a week—extreme metal freaks.

Black metal bands may be made up of raving satanic loons with ridiculous "scary" pseudonyms like Necrobutcher and Goat, but at least the bands themselves have relatively normal names. Immortal, Mayhem, Bathory, Emperor, Venom—nothing too fancy here, but enough to get the point across. Death metal bands, on the other hand, seem to have a penchant for dreaming up the fucking stupidest monikers ever.

This is truly a skill. Many bands-of-the-minute seem to spend more time primping their asymmetrical shag haircuts than they do on their band's name. Not in death metal. These guys think long and hard on what is going to successfully scare Mom and Dad and get themselves on the christian right shitlist. These "creative" names seem to fall into one of five categories, which I've listed below with examples. Yes, these are all real bands (and, strangely enough, the majority of them hail from Florida, the Sunshine State, also the home base of many boy bands and Jeb Bush).

Before you ask, there IS a difference between black metal and death metal, the specifics of which I'm not entirely clear on. The gist seems to be that death metal focuses more on, well, death and cemeteries and gothy things like that, and black metal talks more about renouncing god, embracing satan, yada yada. But I could be wrong. That's also not to mention the evil slew of other headbanger styles like grindcore, thrash, doom metal, speed metal, nu metal, deathrock, slam, metalcore and about 900,000 other subcategories. See? You DO learn something new every day. Even if it is useless shit like this. Now on to the absurdity:

1.) Bodily functions and mutilation. There is an astounding number of death metal bands with names that fall into this category:
• Cystic Dyssentary
• Visceral Bleeding
• Decrepit Skeleton
• Intestine Baalism
• Gory Blister
• Vomit Remnants
• Anal Blast (which I think is my personal favorite)
• Bloodgasm
• Jungle Rot

2.) Declaration to kill and/or maim (extra points for getting really specific)
• Cattle Decapitation
• Prostitute Disfigurement
• Dismembered Fetus
• Severed Head
• Nun Slaughter
• Cock and Ball Torture (I changed my mind: this is my favorite)
• Bound in Human Flesh

3.) Really, really, really, really, really, really long
• The Number Twelve Looks Like You
• The Tide That Turns The Christians Souls Into Dust And Summons Satan To His Infernal Palace
• 666 Lacerations to the Sternum (OK, this one really IS my favorite)
• Paracoccidioidomicosisproctitissarcomucosis

4.) Strangely earthy and not at all threatening
• Autumn Leaves
• Canopy
• Budgie
• Manatee
• Winds

5.) Beyond stupid
• Wykked Wytch
• Jumpin' Jesus
• Lord Fuck (the best one yet)
• Bestial Warlust

I'm not sure what is more incomprehensible here: the names or the music itself. Call me a music snob, but I just don't get it. Apparantly there is meant to be a message in the music, but what they are trying to say is anyone's guess—the vocal stylings can only be described as Charlie Brown's teacher vomiting into a megaphone. What are they saying? It's too loud! Turn it down! And what are they so mad about anyway? Yeah, I'm totally getting old. But I guess if you go to see a band called "Gory Blister" you most likely have a pretty good idea what you're going to be in for.


WORLD EXCLUSIVE: Message from the TomKat fetus!

This is truly a monumental (albeit unusual) day for Stupid & Contagious. I have no idea how this is possible (the pregnancy itself is mysterious enough), but the world's most famous unborn child has sent a message up the tube, if you will, to this little blog! That's right: the fetus of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes has emailed me. And because everything I do, I do it for you, I will reproduce it in full here in a STUPID & CONTAGIOUS WORLD EXCLUSIVE—what is revealed in this letter is sure to shake the entertainment world to its' very foundations, so prepare yourself for some seriously shocking revelations.

I must say that I'm impressed with the fetus's impeccable grammar and lack of spelling mistakes. I expect if this one is not immediately taken hostage by the Sea Org, we may have an English major on our hands. Behold and get ready for tomorrow's buzz. Remember, you saw it here first!

Good day to you, RockitQueen, and greetings from in utero!

I am currently floating here, enjoying my evening thumb suck, mulling over my impending emergence into the world. As you can well imagine, I'm quite ready to get out of here as things are getting a little bit hot and cramped and I'm a little tired of suffering through the Chanticos and herpes simplex 1 outbreaks. Plus, I'm anxious to see if my mom will take one look at me and become inspired to run away, change her name and assume a new identity.

I've been getting a bad rap in the press because everyone thinks I am demon seed and that I'm going to burst directly through my mom's belly, "Alien"-style, and leer at all the doctors and nurses. I can assure you that I am a very normal, very typical baby. But once I make my appearance, I know those Scientology creeps will be waiting for me with eager, greedy anticipation. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if they even pushed down on my mom's belly to shoot me out, catch me like a football and then whisk me off to their big desert boat. Since I still won't be able to see real well or grasp anything, nor will I be able to speak beyond screetching and gurgling, there isn't much I can do to escape.

Additionally, I am sure you've heard all the buzz about Scientology's "birthing rituals", i.e. the silent-birth-with-no-drugs method. What do you think of that? Because I think it's completely fucked up! The woman is pushing something the size of a watermelon through an opening the size of a quarter—I think she has a right to make as much noise as she wants! And no drugs? Forget her, what about me? I mean, you've seen my dad right? I think I'm going to need some good tranqs if there is a possiblity he might start jumping from bed to bed in the hospital while palming my little head.

So as you can see, I am pretty much doomed right from the start, unless my mom can pull it together and get the two of us on a plane to Costa Rica, STAT. I guess all I'm asking is for an outlet to vent my frustrations on my family situation, and I thought you might be understanding, and perhaps even sympathetic. I may only be the size of a small cat, but I have feelings, too, and I'd just like to express them in some avenue before they all get audited away.

One more thing: I may be giving you an exclusive peek into my world, but that does not include a peek at my junk. That exclusive will be going to Star Magazine. Just so you know.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Tom Cruise & Kate Homes' Fetus

P.S. Help...me...


Bringing new meaning to "Trash Can School"

One thing I often say the world needs is a stricter definition of what is considered "art." Now, I don't mean I want things banned, but perhaps critics could be more, well, CRITICAL about what is *really* a creative, provacative, artistic statement and what is just gag-worthy shock value. I mean, collecting your used tampons for months and displaying them in a filing cabinet at the Met? Or suspending animal carcasses in glass cubes filled with formaldahyde? Or "draping" islands and bridges? Damien Hirst is the second highest-paid living artist, next to Jasper Johns. This makes me want to fall into a coma.

Well, brace yourself and get ready for what is quite possibly the worst example of so-called art ever unveiled. Some douchebag named Daniel Edwards has created the "Monument To Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston" which is currently being foisted on the public at the Capla Kesting Fine Art center in Brooklyn. I am utterly aghast: it's a monument to Britney and her never-done-before breakthrough decision to put motherhood before her career. It depicts a pregnant "Britney" posed on all fours on a bearskin rug with the top of the baby's head "emerging"—ug, I just can't type any more description. It is simply the most fucking absurd sculpture that has ever been created.

I can't even begin to explain the ridiculous "meaning" behind the work. The official press release babbles with explaination that would be comical if it weren't so freakish:

"Pop-star Britney Spears is the 'ideal' model for Pro-Life"
Is this guy on crack?

"Dedication of the life-sized statue celebrates the recent birth of Spears’ baby boy, Sean, and applauds her decision of placing family before career. 'A superstar at Britney’s young age having a child is rare in today’s celebrity culture. This dedication honors Britney for the rarity of her choice and bravery of her decision,' said gallery co-director, Lincoln Capla."
Wow, Britney is such a groundbreaker! Most women would make the selfish choice to continue working, or worse yet, abort, because all of them have the money, staff and support systems so that not working is always an option. But not Brit—she chose to instead steal the boyfriend of a pregnant woman with two small children, gallavant around the world recording every slobbery kiss and bong hit, and then have a save-the-relationship baby, which she proceeds to either pawn off to her team of lackeys or perch on her lap unrestrained as she swerves down the highway with a frappacino in one hand trying to mow down paparazzi. So rare, so brave! I'm sure Shar Jackson would agree.

"The monument also acknowledges the pop-diva’s pin-up past by showing Spears seductively posed on all fours atop a bearskin rug with back arched, pelvis thrust upward, as she clutches the bear’s ears with ‘water-retentive’ hands."
Oh, now I get it. Danny-boy was really trying to make a Britney sex doll, got caught in the act and tried to save face by claiming it's some kind of pro-life celebration of motherhood. And "water-retentive hands"? What the fuck does that mean? I get the feeling whoever wrote this idiotic press release watched a bunch of those 1950s films about "womanly cycles" and still thinks that chicks can't go swimming during their periods.

“'Britney provides inspiration for those struggling with the ‘right choice’,' said artist Daniel Edwards. “She was number one with Google last year, with good reason—people are inspired by the beauty of a pregnant woman."
No, dumbass, people were fascinated by the fact that someone with so much money can't manage to comb her hair, dress herself in clean clothes or comprehend that having a baby won't improve her dysfunctional relationship with a pothead drifter.

"Capla Kesting denies the statue was developed from a rumored bootleg Britney Spears birth video."
Oh my god...hold on...I just threw up in my mouth. This is the most disturbing Brit-Brit rumor yet. I'm going to pretend I didn't just read that and move on...

As a former art student, this makes me want to find this Daniel Edwards character, slap a straight jacket on him and display him in a padded room at the Whitney. I'd call it:
"Untitled (Assjacker Who Created Asinine Birthing Memorial To Untalented White Trash Dingdong)"
Artist: RockitQueen
Cost: Nothing, just make it stop


Here's a bustle in your hedgerow

There is really no purpose to this post other than to say that this man is just sex. Good god.

Shout out to my West Coast sista, Lola!!


Boys, Breeders & Blockheads: It's the 1st Annual Stupies!

After a brief hiatus, during which I made significant headway in "Lords of Chaos" and gathered the latest deliciously trashy Britney news, I'm back and ready to rant. But since I am refreshed and relaxed and feeling not so mean after my little vaca, I decided I'd do something a little more fun and a little less debased by offering up yet another awards line-up. It is that time of year, after all. And in true Stupid & Contagious fashion, it's better late than never.

So without further ado, I present the 1st Annual Stupid & Contagious Awards (aka The Stupies)! "Winners" will recieve an attractive certificate (if I ever get around to making them, which is highly unlikely) and the smug satisfaction of having been thought of in some regard by a peon such as myself. What more could you want? Remember: anyone can win an Oscar, but only a select few can win a Stupie! And now on with the show...

• Most Annoying •
Buckethead. Who the fuck is this guy and why in the name of all that's holy does he go around wearing a bucket on his head? Why does the bucket sometimes say "Funeral" on it? Why is he wearing a Shatner mask (which he is hilariously smoking through in this picture) and a Slash wig? Why is he now a part of Guns N' Roses? Why, why, WHY? So many unanswered questions. And yet, I really don't care about the answers.

• Cutest •
Behold the sultry, sulky, shaggy and sexy, sexy, sexy Ville Valo. He's so wonderfully bad, stinky and dirty—and so, so pretty. While the Norwegians are tearing each other up next door, Helsinki is turning out tortured, high-cheekboned goth rockers such as this. I want to höyhentää his kengänkärki.

• Coolest •
Joan Jett, as usual. Without her, there would be no RockitQueen. And if I could be anyone besides RockitQueen, it would be Joan. Also nominated: Bjork, Amy Sedaris, Benicio del Toro, Gary Dourdan, Anthony Hopkins, and Tito Jackson.

• White Trashiest •
This one was really tough, as there were so many slimeballs from which to choose. But in a surprise slam-dunk, Britney and K-Fed walk away with the Stupie! You are just as surprised as I.

• Best Reality Freak •
Two words: Duncan Nutter.

• Song of the Year •
"Shine It All Around" by Robert Plant & the Strange Sensation.

• Lamest Song Of The Year •
Anything by Bright Eyes because I HATE HATE HATE LOATHE AND HATE that name! I don't think I've ever heard anything by him, but I imagine it is annoyingly whiny, singer-songwriter mush pablum for 12-year-olds to swoon over.

• Best Show •
Hands down: "Dog the Bounty Hunter." This show goes above and beyond your typical reality schlock, bringing action, adventure, good quotes and some seriously bad hair directly into your living room. Dog and Co. represent a kinder, gentler variety of white trash (my kind of stock)—that which brings the whoop-ass when necessary, but then offers a kind word and a helpful hand to the very fugitives they've just picked up. And I think Dog's son Leland is kind of hot.

• Worst Show •
"According to Jim." I've never seen it. I probably will never see it. But I'd say this is a pretty solid educated guess.

• Freakiest •
At three in the morning after a night of drunken debauchery, I saw this show called "Obsessed" on A&E or Discovery or one of those channels and I swear to god I didn't imagine it. It was all about people with addictions that were taking over their lives. One woman bilked something like $4 million from the company she worked for to buy vintage cars, collectables and so much crap that she filled her home from floor to ceiling; there was actually a small trail forged through the mounds of shit. There were a few other weirdos, too, but the best was this guy who has dedicated his life to making himself look like a tiger. He has implants in his cheeks, nose, forehead and lips, facial tattoos, specially-made cat-eye contacts, "whisker piercings" in his cheeks and much more for that super-fierce big cat look. I know he's not really famous or anything, but I think it's pretty safe to say he's riding a square-wheeled unicycle to Crazy Town, population: Michael Jackson.

• Most Morbidly Fascinating •
Our favorite black metaller-turned-murderer-turned-nazi sympathizer Count Grishnackh shares this prestigious Stupie with The Duggars, consisting of parents Jim-Bob and Michelle and their litter of 17 kids. How, you ask, do these seemingly nice folks find themselves in a category with a nutball like the Count? For these reasons:
• They all dress alike.
• The kids are all homeschooled. Why is it that all these families that have spawn in the double digits insist on homeschooling their kids? Anyway, I saw a show about them and the kids were learning about bankruptcy and some kind of soy foam insulation.
• They love tater tot casserole.
• Michelle's hair.
• They endorse "Wholesome Swimwear" that "highlights the face, rather than the body." I wish I was kidding.

• Why Is This Person Considered Hot? Award •
Male: Ben Affleck, who looks like he probably smells like a combo of ciggie smoke, hot dogs and balls. Female: Jennifer Aniston, who isn't cute by any stretch of the imagination, yet somehow always gets chosen one of the hottest chicks ever by men's magazines.

• Why Is This Person Famous? Award •
It's a group tie for the cast of "Laguna Beach."

• Hindenburg Award •
This award is given to the person/persons/things that we can't take our eyes off even as they/it are crashing, burning and emitting noxious gasses that will asphixiate all of us as we stare. This year's winner is Joe Simpson, father of Jessica and Ashlee. Whether he's badly spin-doctoring defenses to cover up the obviously-unwanted Ashlee's constant fuck-ups, repressing his own obvious homosexuality, or letching after Jessica's funbags, he's a PR disaster waiting to happen. Can't wait for that blimp to go up in flames (pun intended).

• Stupid & Contagious Person of the Year •
It's not a person, it's a country. The winner is NORWAY! Congratulations, Norway! What other magical land has so captured and terrorized our imaginations in the last few months? What other faraway kingdom has contributed such an absurd volume of maniacal fiends to the music industry? And what other bewitching country do I hope has a really good sense of humor for all the flack I've given them and will not send a goth lynch mob after me because it's all done in good humor and, look, I gave you my blog's top honor! I will vow not to make fun of your spiked chestplates, corpse facepaint and studded kneepads on the red carpet. Promise!


The Girls With the Most Steak: An Ode To Groupies

In light of the horrifying release of the Scott Stapp/Kid Rock sex tape, I thought I'd turn lemons into Lynchburg lemonade and pen a tribute to that most dedicated, devoted and debaucherous subculture of rock devotees, known affectionately as "the groupie." This is an oft-misunderstood bunch. These wild and crazy gals stop at nothing to meet, greet and accomodate their rock idols and hopefully live on to tell the freeky-deeky tale. Indeed, groupiedom has spawned some of the best stories you've ever heard, guaranteed to make even the most uninhibited among us turn bright red and say, "Heavens to motherfucking Betsy."

I recently read Pamela des Barres' memoir "I'm With The Band: Confessions Of A Groupie", which was like devouring a five-course meal at Morton's for free. I'll be honest: I always had this exhorbitant fantasy of running off to L.A., dressing up like a super tramp and gallavanting around on the Sunset Strip looking for good bands and bad boys. It's not much to aspire to these days, as evidenced by the wretched creatures that voluntarily exposed themselves to Scott Stapp's ween, so I would amend that fantasy to include time travel back to the era when I could have chased around '60s rock gods and sniff glue with Miss Pamela.

Unfortunately, Groupie Central, the online home of the best I-fucked-a-rock-star-and-his-dick-is-this-big-and-wait-until-you-hear-what-freaky-stuff-he's-into stories ever, is now defunct. But it was there that you would learn such esoteric bombshells as who likes chicks to sit on his face, who gets so high he can't get it up, and who has the biggest cock in rock next to Tommy Lee and Peter Steele (here's a hint: it's the guitar player from the original Guns N' Roses that ISN'T Slash). Anyway, Metal Sludge has a pretty good round-up of rated metal guys, as well as a list of groupies and their conquests. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that these pages are HNSFW (hella not safe for work).

The groupies of today seem to consist mainly of porn stars and Hooters waitresses, and the don't hold a zippo to the Band Aids of yesteryear—the chicks that today have made very lucrative businesses off of their rock-n-roll adventures— including

• Bebe Buell, who had a long affair with Elvis Costello, a child with Steven Tyler and a night of adult passion with Mick Jagger;

• "Sweet Connie" Hamzy, known for "accomodating" pretty much every rocker to roll into Little Rock, including Peter Frampton, Don Henley and Gene Simmons;

Morgana Welch, the '70s party girl who keeps an online diary of her past escapades with Led Zeppelin, The Who and Joe Cocker;

• Cynthia Plaster Caster, the innovator that molded the junk of such stars as Jimi Hendrix, Jello Biafra and MC5's Wayne Kramer,

• the unnamed groupies highlighted in Motley Crue's book "The Dirt" who shit in a litter box in front of the band and called their moms from a telephone inserted into another chick's "area",

• and, of course, Miss Pamela des Barres, the queen of all groupies who once did a naked backbend for Jim Morrison, climbed Mt. Jimmy Page and served as a muse for Frank Zappa.

As you can see, the likes of Lisa Moorish, who had babies with the unibrowed Liam Gallahger and crackhead/Kate Moss corruptor Pete Doherty simply do not compare. However, I am really fascinated by the groupies that give blow jobs to Scott Stapp and allow it to be recorded. These are the gals that fall into the category of groupie I like to call "Standard-Free." Anyone who has put out for the following people falls into this special class: Lemmy Kilmister, Mick Mars, Fieldy from Korn, C.C. DeVille, any member of Nickelback, Fred Durst, either of the Gallahger brothers, and any member of KISS out of makeup. There are more, but these guys seem to get as much, if not more, poon than actual bona-fide hot rockers. I'm also convinced that roadies actually get more ass than the band does. Come on, they are the first line of defense between the fans and the stars—they have the second-biggest pull next to the band members themselves. And you can't say they don't deserve it since they pretty much have to pick up after and cater to belligerant rock stars hand and foot. The least they can do is introduce the girls to the band after they bang them.

Surprised I haven't used the word "slut" yet? That's because pretty much every music fan is a groupie. Some just have specific ambitions, and who is going to fault them? Rock does strange things to people, after all.


Beach Bums: In Hawai'i with the Federlines

In light of all the Academy Awards fuss, how dare we forget that our most loveable little darling pop-tart Miss Britney is hardly absent from the limelight and the prying cameras of the paparazzi. Poor dear! How can she possibly live a normal life and wear her cowboy hats and Juicy sweatsuits in peace with all these parasites invading her privacy? All she wants is some alone time in Hawai'i with her louse-ridden hubby, servants, managers, publicists, spiritual advisors, personal trainers, massage therapists, professional zit-poppers, baristas, hangers-on and that squirmy little bald thing that showed up a few months ago—it's so funny when he pees in the nanny's face! Oh, yeah, and nannies.

Before her much-hyped and inspirational appearance at Mardi Gras—during which sunbeams broke through the clouds, rainbows miraculously appeared and everyone in New Orleans joined hands and hummed "Toxic," suddenly forgetting all about that unpleasant Katrina business—Britty and crew (sans Kev) wisked off to Maui for a relaxing little vaca. Word is she is going to hole up in paradise to "work" on "her" new "album." The other word is that back in Malibu, MC Skat Kat gave the bong a break and was spotted wandering around in a parking lot with some short, blonde, stupid-looking chick that wasn't Britney! And they had their arms around each other! And K-Fed's pants were hanging halfway off of his ass! This can only mean one thing: it's Obvious PR Spin Time!

Faster than you can say "po-po-popozao," Britty's spin doctors immediately flew Federfucker out to Hawai'i and then sent the couple on a romantic walk, complete with Kev holding Brit's chubby little hand, to be captured on film by the lurking photographers. See what they did there? They used the paparazzi FOR their benefit and they didn't even know it! They think they are taking pics to use against Brit and Kev to talk about their idiotic outfits and how they are probably going to see the "Larry the Cable Guy" movie. Haw haw, they sure fooled the public! When you have lots of money, you can do things like that. Whether or not anyone believes this, one thing these photos DID show us was that these two better call Janet "Miss Jackson" 'cause they're really, really nasty. *rim shot*

I was kind of hoping that the little blonde K-Fed was cuddling in that picture was Brit's little sister, Jamie Lynn. Now THAT would be a story, wouldn't it? Alas, it was just some random groupie that will forever be known as "that girl Federline had his arm around in a parking lot." They certainly don't make them like Miss Pamela anymore, do they?

In the meantime, let's raise a glass of Franzia Zin (America's top-selling wine, dontcha know) and wish the Dynamic Duo a dream vacation in Hawai'i, where the Old Milwaukee flows like wine, the Pall Malls are in endless supply and room service delivers pork rinds. We can only hope they find a tiki idol...


If nothing else, at least Jakey had a good time at the Oscars.


I wish I could quit the Oscars

• I haven't seen "Crash." I honestly have no interest in seeing "Crash." But is "Crash" really better than "Brokeback"? Because "Brokeback" was pretty fucking great. Upset of the night.

• Jon Stewart...Best. Host. Ever. Loved the joke about Bjork getting shot by Cheney. But I have to say that the best moment of the night was Tom Hanks getting hit by the poison dart. Reminds me that dude used to be pretty darn funny before he started trying to save the space program and talking to volleyballs.

• Second-best moment of the night: the montage of Westerns. Hi-freaking-larious!

• Someday you will see me at the Oscars. And it will be as Joaquin Phoenix's date. I guarantee it. And I promise I will help him relax and not look so uncomfortable and constipated all the time.

• Besides that, I've been asked if I could do a sandwich with any two nominees who would it be. Are you ready? Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giametti. That's right. You heard me.

• I also have another new boyfriend: Terrance Howard. Hello, nurse!

• Jake Gyllenhall was high.

• Keira Knightley is fast becoming my new Gwenyth Paltrow. What an annoying little pouty princess. Blah. I hated her stupid prom-queen-circa-1988 dress, but I have to admit I loved the necklace.

• Bad hair was rampant this year. Charlize looked like she had a slumber party last night where everyone did each other's hair and makeup. Sandra Bullock's looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. Kiera Knightley's hair looked like mine does right now. Also, what was with all the bad bleached-out dye jobs? Kidman, Knightley and Charlize: take a cue from Dolly. If you're gonna bleach it, bleach it.

• And now for best and worst dressed. Best:
Felicity Huffman—hot mama!
J-Lo. I'm sure I might be in the minority on this one but I loved the color and not many can pull it off. That jaundaced, mall-haired skeleton sitting next to her really dragged the overall look down, though.
Salma Hayek. She was pretty in teal and her boobs looked great.
Ziyi Zhang. Unique, cute, young and fun.

I'm sideways on Michelle Williams's dress (at least she went with something other than off-white like most of the other gals did), but her makeup was fantabulous

And worst:
Jennifer Aniston. God, could she be more boring?
Nicole Kidman: Advice from one pale gal to another: NEVER WEAR WHITE! And her hair was sticking up when she was presenting.
Naomi Watts: Love her, hated the paper-shredder remnants she was wearing.
Helena Bohnam Carter. Is this woman on crack? Because this stuff can't be the work of a conscious mind.


Screw the statue, I want the gift basket!

While I'm feeling around under the couch cushions in an attempt to scrape up the cash for tonight's cover charge, the luckiest fucks on the planet are getting all kinds of free shit just for showing up and reading off of the teleprompter at the Academy Awards on Sunday. Have you heard about what comes in these freaking "gift baskets" that go to all the nominees and presenters? See if you can guess which one of these wonderful prizes is NOT in this year's basket:

• A Krups kitchen set, including a coffeemaker, a toaster, an electric kettle and a year's supply of coffee and tea ($700). Too bad Britney isn't presenting...this could save her from some more potentially embarrassing Starbucks runs.

• A red leather case filled with Shu Uemura cosmetics, including mink eyelashes ($600). Because everyone needs mink eyelashes.

• A two-night stay at the Carlyle hotel in New York ($2,300). This place is located right on Central Park and features rooms that run up to six grand a night. In other words, cheap slobs like myself would probably be quickly and quietly diverted across the street to avoid too close of contact to the posh and elite.

• A three-night stay at San Ysidro Ranch, where Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh got married and John and Jackie Kennedy honeymooned ($3,000).

• A three-night stay for two (plus a "personal surf-butler") at St. Regis Monarch Beach Resort & Spa in Dana Point, Calif. ($5,900). What exactly is a "personal surf-butler"? I'm imagining some poor schmo dressed in tails who has to dash out in the ocean and help celebs to their feet when a wave knocks them over. Or maybe it's just surprise guest Farnsworth Bentley.

• A four-night stay at the Halekulani Resort in Waikiki, complete with spa treatments, dinner at the on-site five-diamond restaurant and an ocean front room. There is no value included with this but I estimate it to be worth around six months' rent.

• A dinner party at any Morton's Steakhouse ($1,500), a place that I'm pretty sure you won't get a seat at if you showed up dressed like Federline.

• A Tahitian pearl necklace ($1,300). The picture kind of made it look like one of those eagle's-foot-holding-a-globe necklaces you can win at the fair when you squirt water into the clown's mouth better than everyone else.

• Kay Unger cashmere pajama bottoms ($500)...what??

• An unlimited day of services at Cornelia Day Resort in New York City ($3,500), a place that boasts a rooftop pool where you can float around and get a massage at the same time for $200 an hour.

• A full day of free repair services from Mr. Handyman. Question: what does this "Mr. Handyman" look like? Because if Mr. Handyman is hot, this might be the best gift in the whole package.

• A day of boxing with Joe Frazier.

• A full day of getting your butt wiped for you by a representative from Mr. Buttwipe.

Did you guess which one is the fake gift? This is not all, but my chakra is falling out of alignment and that isn't good for my endochrine system. If you're so inclined, you can visit Swagtime and snag some of these fantabulous gifts and packages for yourself. Wow, you can be just like a pampered, A-list celebrity! Except without all the photogs up your ass and the creepy fan fiction.


The Count Grishnackh Makeover

It's the long-awaited Mayhem update post! It's been a while because I've been wading through the nearly 400 pages of "Lords of Chaos" and not making a whole lotta progress (give me a break, I'm a slow reader), so I decided to instead troll the 'net to feed the hungry masses the Mayhem news they demand from me. Lucky for you, I found a few "interesting" tidbits to share.

First off, it appears your boyfriend Count Grishnackh has had a little makeover and has chosen to go for the super-sexxy nazi look, complete with suspenders, brown shirt and Hitler-lite haircut. I found this* glamour shot on the uber-creepy Burzum website, which is dedicated to the Count's "band" (which seems to consist of him, a keyboard and the lonely echos bouncing around on the walls of his solitary confinement cell). I debated linking to the site, and decided that I don't want to give him the publicity, but just know that it contains pages and pages of the Count's incoherant ramblings about the Bronze Age and Thor and sun kingdoms and world orders and...bliggidy blah. I tried to make heads or tails of it, at least so I could make fun, but I started to get the feeling the FBI might flag me for spending too much time on the page. Before I erased my search history, I did check out the "articles" section and , not surprisingly, Grisshy alledges that only SOME of the stories posted about him are accurate. Who does he think he is? Lindsay Lohan? I thought teen queens and C-listers were the only people that were quoted "out of context" in interviews. How wrong I was. The aryan brotherhood is really just a bunch of misunderstood scamps that just want to dance.

On a side note, if I ever get arrested, I'm hoping it happens in Norway. Despite their harsh shunning policies when it comes to underperforming Olympic athletes, they seem to have a pretty freaking lenient criminal justice system in place. Forgetting that the maximum sentence you can EVER get for ANYTHING is 21 years, the prisons allow the inmates to wear whatever they please, let Grish have a keyboard and a computer in his cell and, most depressing of all, permit conjugal visits. That means the Count is getting laid! The humanity...

Besides all that, Grish got some kind of "free weekend" out of the joint to visit god only knows who, and the virtuoso immediately amassed a stockpile of automatic weapons, jacked a car and led the fuzz on a high-speed chase around town. I bet you think he got 25-to-life for all this, right? Wrongo! He got TWO FUCKING YEARS! That means Grish is due to be released this year, so if you are a blonde, blue-eyed white person and happen to live in Norway and you happen to see the guy in the picture above* lurking around, make a run for the loo and stand on the toilet so he doesn't see your feet.

Now on to a more buoyant topic: my new fave pic of Immortal. Just take a look to the left and say it: what the motherfucking fuck? It looks like some sad goth kid posing for a senior picture, but can't let go of the goth act even to please mom. She simply can't give this picture of him hissing at the camera to Grandma, now can she? You'll notice the spiked shinpads are back, and this time with matching studded armguards, but he's also put on what appears to be a V-necked sleeveless Hanes Beefy Tee. And, hey, has anyone seen '70s-era Yoko Ono lately? Because I think he scalped her! Something tells me he's not calling up random people to tell them he loves them, though.

I know, I know. It's not very nice of me to make fun of people, especially black metallers that don't know anything beyond, well, black, spiked and threatening. But these blog entries practically write themselves and I'm just being lazy.

* Note: I did have a picture of this for you to enjoy, but I took it down because it was creeping me out.