Hell gets bedazzled

Nobody has ever accused me of being nice, and this is no doubt the meanest, most unprovoked post I've written to date. But I don't care. People need the facts in order to stop the modern-day black plague that is shitty fashion. You know what I'm talking about. The applique sweaters, the cropped leggings, the boxy jackets, the shapeless jumpers, grown adults wearing bib overalls—in fact, you may even think it is the norm, since about 75 percent of people I see on a daily basis are wearing shit like this. Not that it is necessarily their fault. If they are not guided properly, how can they make good fashion decisions? If shit is presented to them, then they will choose shit. Thus, I will not always blame the fashion victims. Most of the time it's the fashion perpetrators.

Now, applying that logic, get ready to meet the overlord of shitty fashion. Yes, that's her above and, yes, she's wearing a stuffed headband and a sweater emblazoned with bees. Her name is Jeanne Bice and she is the creator and "Head Quack" of the Quacker Factory clothing line. If you've never heard of this particular brand, you should feel good about that because it's probably because you don't park yourself in front of QVC for hours on end; that's where her line is exclusively sold. She may have a pretty sweet racket going on, but I think it's safe to say we won't be seeing Jeanne on the next cycle of "Project Runway", if you know what I'm saying. I'm saying she would definitely be out.

There is so much to make fun of about this company that I hardly know where to begin. How about at the beginning? Jeanne was just a regular housewife and kountry krafter until her hubby (Hubby Rick, by any chance?) encouraged her to start selling her wares. The result was a store disturbingly called "The Silent Women" and eventually spawned the demon child that is Quacker Factory. Jeanne's deal with QVC was, of course, an act of divine intervention. She says on her terrifying website, "I put a sign on the wall that said- "QVC - YES" and sat back and waited for god to do his job." Hmmm, maybe I should put a sign on my wall that says, "Quacker Factory - NO", but I honestly don't think god has the time to waste on petty miracles such as this...believe me, I've tried with the Ville requests. Apparantly, Jeanne Bice does not feel the same way.

But let's not waste our time on company history, when the shitastic clothes should be the real focal point here. First off, I must say that I have never understood the epidemic of grown, adult women who insist on wearing large versions of childrens' clothing. Pink jumpers, Pooh Bear sweatshirts, Precious Moments anything—it seems like the older some of these women get, the more juvenile their wardrobes become. I am holding Jeanne Bice personally responsible for encouraging this horrifying trend, as Quacker Factory clothing breaks all the such rules of age-appropriate clothing, as well as any other fashion don'ts that you can possibly think up.

One of my pet peeves are "novelty" tops and sweaters emblazoned with theme images, like pumpkins and leaves for fall/Halloween, doggies/kitties, and sometimes even full scenes, like kids having a snowball fight all across a sweater. Of course, this is a staple design element in Quacker Factory clothing. There are sweaters and sweatshirts featuring bunnies, lighthouses, laundry on a clothesline, smiling clowns with rainbows coming out of their asses. OK, I made that last one up, but you get the idea; if it's adorable and precious, it's going on the shirt! The motif is sometimes even carried through on matching pants and cardigans—little carrots all over for the bunnies, little anchors for the lighthouses, little socks for the clothesline—and then embellished within an inch of its' life with sequins, beads and glitter. Maybe a Michael's craft store exploded near the Quacker Factory or something, because I can't possibly imagine man or machine applying all that shit, but either way, the cutesy factor is bordering on terminal.

This company is also a big advocate of the granddaddy of all fashion faux pas (at least in my book): large tunic tops over leggings. I don't know where the idea was born that this hellish combo was a good idea for ANYONE, let alone heavy people, but this seems to be one horrid fashion "trend" that won't mercifully die. Why don't we bring back big shoulder pads while we're at it to complete that sexy Spongebob Squarepants sillohuette? Oh, wait! Quacker Factory already has! And they are presented on thin, young-ish models, which is totally false advertising. Get Jeanne on there to model it, for god sakes, not Gisele.

A friend made the brilliant observation that these clothes are not only heinously unstylish, but they are also de-sexualizing. Go ahead—visit the Quacker Factory website and see for yourself. You'll come away a whole new person after reading Jeanne's inspiring proverbs. Here are just a few under the header "How to Stay Young":

• Remember, there is no way you can look as bad as that person on your drivers license!
• Humpty Dumpty was pushed!
• Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.
• Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a foreign country, but not to where the guilt is.

Wow, thanks Jeanne! I was sitting here with a gun in my mouth until I read that! Anyway, I'll spare you any more of the "inspiration" found on the site. Just know that it mainly consists of empty declarations to "Believe!" and "Sparkle!", eternally un-funny quotes about womanhood that probably came from the yellowing Cathy comic strips Jeanne has posted on her fridge and sexist encouragement to stay cheerful and do everything in life with a big Stepford smile on your face. Yes, put all your energy into believing in bon bons and leave all that stuff about cholesterol to the doctors.

If that's not bad enough, Jeanne has added "author" to her resume, with the publication of...get ready for it..."Pull Yourself Up By Your Bra Straps and Other Quacker Wisdom". I expect that this is basically just a collection of the above whimsical sayings for frumpy housewives to get their minds off their bratty kids and lazy husbands. God, how irritating—this woman is making a living distributing shitty fashion. And not just any shitty fashion...really, really bad, unstylish, unflattering, garish stuff that is making the world an uglier place. Jeanne Bice must be stopped! Where is Tim Gunn when we need him the most? Get this woman out immediately!


Inbreds, ball gags and Colin Farrell's porn 'stache

I've been a horrible blogger lately, so apologies. Although that's assuming anyone has noticed. And cares.

I assure you that there has been good reason for my absence. Yes, part of it involves my chronic issue with laziness, but the other part entails subjecting myself to loads of sex, drugs, guns and violence, so much so that, if confronted with Gacy, Corill and Dahmer crime-scene photos, I'd probably say, "So can you believe they didn't vote Angela off 'Project Runway' this week? Unbelievable." I've alternated melting into a puddle on the baby-poop brown carpet of my 943-degree homestead and freezing my ass off in a subzero movie theater with some fuckers with snacks munching away in my ear, staring slack-jawed and drooling at screens splattered with gallons of blood, bullets and expletives. Sweet.

Anyhoo, I figured I'd pass along a few reviews to all you sickos who love a good, gritty movie. So here you go: my assessments of the big-screen debut of "Miami Vice" (on opening day, no less!) and the recent video releases of "The Hills Have Eyes" and "Hostel". I'll offer a short synopsis, followed by review, rating and violence factor. **WARNING: SPOILERS! If you want to see any of these movies, don't read below this line, because I'm giving a bunch of shit away. If you've seen these movies (or don't care), carry on...**

• "Miami Vice" •
When I heard "Vice" was being made into a movie, my initial thought was that it would be a parody film, along the lines of the "Charlie's Angels" and "Starsky & Hutch" movies. How wrong I was! The Crockett and Tubbs characters are updated to modern-day undercover cops recruited to infiltrate an international drug ring that takes them to South America and Cuba. The grainy film style, thunderous sound and suspenseful editing makes you feel like you're going to get your head blown off by some cartel kingpin at any second. The movie is quite long, but it's so engrossing and moves along at such a snappy pace, it's over before you have time to wonder how Sonny can possibly have time to care for and feed his pet alligator. And in classic RockitQueen style, I have to add that there's something about Colin Farrell's drug-dealer hairstyle, furrowed-yet-artfully-waxed brow and porn 'stache that is causing me to give him a pass for fucking Britney. Normally, he doesn't do anything for me, but by god, "Vice" has made me temporarily change my mind—something in Miami's hot and it ain't the weather, know what I'm sayin'? I give it two enthusiastic thumbs up; run out and see this movie immediately.
Rating: sublime
Violence factor: rat-a-tat-tat

• "The Hills Have Eyes" •
This movie stars Ted "Put the fucking lotion in the basket" Levine, the chick who played the witch that Jim Morrison married and a bunch of people I have never seen before (probably from "The OC" or something). Basically what happens is a family of annoying republicans in an RV end up stranded in the New Mexico desert where a band of deformed, flesh-eating hillbilly hermits decend on their little camp, unleash some fury and kidnap a baby. A dog dies, Buffalo Bill gets burned at the stake and the sad sack son-in-law marches all Billy the Kid-style into Inbreeder Village (an abandoned "mock town" from the nuclear testing days) to rescue his infant daughter and save the day. It's pretty stupid for the most part, and the makeup effects team went just completely balls-out apeshit on the radiation deformities, so that it's totally not scary. Kind of like how that movie "Jeepers Creepers" started out pretty good until you realized the killer was some stupid winged creature in really super fake-looking rubber prosthetics. I'm not a big fan of the original "Hills", so I really wasn't expecting this movie to be good, but it's not even a little bit fun or scary...it's just kind of depressing. To be honest, I have no idea why I rented it. I haven't been this disappointed since "Urban Legend 2: Final Cut".
Rating: eh
Violence factor: you after listening to Federline "rap"

• "Hostel" •
This movie also stars a bunch of people I don't know, except for my new boyfriend Jay Hernandez, who plays a horndog American tourist backpacking across Europe with a couple of friends. The guys catch wind of some hedonistic village in the east where you can get all the pot and poon you can handle and decide to follow their divining-rod dicks to this Slovakian utopia. Of course, it's totally too good to be true and suddenly our heroes discover that they've been duped into a human hunting ring and...holy shit, even Scott Peterson would probably be disturbed by what happens next. I'm not going to go into details, but shit happens involving drills and chainsaws and teeth and eyes and...BLARGGGHHHH! It was so utterly disgusting that I had to pause it a couple of times and read a few Ziggy cartoons to make myself feel better. Honestly, the concept of the movie is great for a horror film (Tarantino is behind it, if that tells you anything) but I would go so far as to say that "Hostel" is quite possibly the most vile and disturbing movie I've ever seen (and I've seen "Audition", "Pink Flamingos" and "Cool As Ice"). Watch it with a bucket and a security blanket at the ready; I'm still curled up in the fetal position, sucking my thumb and slapping my head.
Rating: shudder
Violence factor: holy fucking shit

So anyway, how about that upset on "Project Runway" this week? They are totally keeping Angela around for the drama, don't you think?


Deep thoughts and shitty poetry

I promised myself I wouldn't write any more about Britney for three reasons: (1) I think it is making all of us dumber; (2) I don't want this blog to be all Britney bashing, all the time; (3) Afterwards, I always feel like stuffing a handful of sleeping pills down my throat, committing hari kari and jumping out the window.

I got all excited for a moment because I figured her little meltdown interview with Matt Lauer would likely be the death of her. Wasn't that so entertaining? I loved it! Fat tears running down her chubby little cheeks, fake eyelash dangling, pursed frosty pink lips, gum snapping into the camera as she begged to be left alone, wailing that "we're people" and "we're country." With every twangy word uttered, every misty closeup of her Wet n' Wild makeup job, every junior -high spiritual-lite reference, every pan zoom revealing her bra strap hanging out of her skanky tank, my abject glee increased. Certainly this would be the end of my nemisis once and for all!

As usual, I'm wrong, because she's back already. After all her tearful pleading for everyone to leave her and Federline alone so they can live their white trash lifestyle in peace, she adds a new "deep" poem to our favorite hotbed of Brit idiocy, the "Stream of Consciousness" segment on her website. Here it is, folks. Get ready to think:


Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
—William Blake

In some ways, people are a lot like animals. We all hunger for the same things. Love, lust, danger, warmth and adventure. Like people, animals all have their own rhythm to life. I'm mesmerized by tigers. Their eyes, their stripes, their constant quest for survival. They almost have a sense of mysteriousness about them. They pull you in and make it difficult to look away. They make you wonder what is behind their gaze. A sense of eerie awe comes over you in their presence. The fear they give you when you pass them is stunning. Behold the beauty of a tiger.

Let's pause for a moment to take this all in. Here we have the cleverly titled "Tigers" (and, you know, why come up with something more abstract when you can get straight to the point), which kicks off with a quote from William Blake. Nice one, Brit—that will give people the impression that you know who William Blake is and that you actually read something besides the latest installment of Crankshaft. But after that promising start, everything just plummets and your audience is most likely left thinking the same thing I am: "Um, Child Protective Services? Time to pay another visit to the Federline household...this is proof positive that copious amounts of weed are being smoked in that place."

One wonders what else would have spawned such a musing, or if it could be anything other than something like this:

Britney (inhaling): So, like, baby, you know what I was just thinkin'?

K-Fed (sparking bong): How fucking sick my new trucker hat is?

Britney (exhaling): Like how tigers are so, like, big and, like, powerful and stuff and their, like, super-mysteriousness gives you this, like, eerie sense of awe, you know what I mean?

K-Fed (rolling): Oh, yeah...FUCK YEAH. I know exactly what you fucking mean, word.

Britney (inhaling): Like they make you look at them and say, like...wow, like, that's a big tiger.

K-Fed (packing pipe): Fucking-A, baby. Those fuckers are big.

Britney (exhaling): And they, like, just want to survive, you know? Just like humans.

K-Fed (sipping Colt 45): God, baby, you are so fucking right. They're so fucking much like people. With all the stripes and stuff.

Britney (inhaling): Oh my god, I'm like, sooooo inspired. I should totally write, like, a poem about this.

K-Fed (crunking): That's so fucking sweet.

Britney (exhaling): Wow, my fingernail polish is sparkly! I, like, never noticed that before!

K-Fed (giving up and just eating a handful of weed): Hey, where's that fuckin' little guy that's always shitting his pants?

Britney (inhaling and exhaling): You mean, like, Sean Preston?

K-Fed (doing the running man): Fuck yeah! That guy! He's like the fuckin' Kid Rock midget or something...

Well, now that I think about it, maybe Britty's desperate attempts to keep her name in the news aren't really that bad. It's awesome enough when a stupid celebrity thinks they can write. It's even better when they think they are writing really deep, provocative things. But it's best of all when they try to tackle poetry. Always ridiculous, always hilarious! So I guess you can just keep at it, Brit. I know you're probably bored out of your empty skull while you're waiting around until you drop your second kid, and all those little pesky thoughts flying around inside your head like flies trapped in a jar need to come out somehow. If you keep on relaying your unintentionally hilarious streams of consciousness, I will have no choice but to keep blogging about you. It's just too fun!


Finally, help for all you godless whores

OK, so I totally thought this was a joke, but unfortunately it seems to be all too real. I never imagined I'd find something that was so blatantly easy to make fun of, but here it is.

There doesn't seem to be any real information on this "NoMoHo" organization, except its' asinine "clever" name, the fact that they only seem to deal in the sale and distribution of ugly, shitty belt buckles and that it's spearheaded by former Real World killjoy Matt Smith, who if you'll remember (or if you have any kind of life whatsoever, you won't remember) was the albino religious zealot from the New Orleans season. It was during a search to find out more to make fun of that I found this compelling info. From the NoMoHo FAQ:

Q: Why chastity belts?
A: Because easy is sleazy.

Q: Are your chastity belts strong?
A: We don’t make the belt. We make the buckle. And NoMoHo® belt buckles are very strong. Not all buckles are made the same. Many are made of plastic that can easily chip, warp, or even break under duress. NoMoHo® buckles are made of 100% metal, making them virtually indestructible. Other buckles are made with ineffective clasping mechanisms. NoMoHo® buckles have quality hitches that are difficult to pop out of your belt holes. These buckles are rugged and ready for use.

I have a Q for you, NoMoHo FAQ: are you fucking kidding? I sat here staring at this for about 10 minutes because I thought I had been sucked into some kind of Victorian-era third dimension—it wasn't until I was distracted by a rerun of "Laguna Beach" coming on TV that brought me back into brutal reality. Scary but true: NoMoHo promotes the useage of CHASTITY BELTS. That are extra-strong and durable. And won't break under duress. Because when you've got a randy erection heading your way, you need all the high-quality protection you can get, and the official NoMoHo belt buckle is your first line of defense.

But I'm confused, because these buckles are also "rugged and ready for use." Precisely what kind of use are you suggesting that wearers of the indestructible NoMoHo® belt buckle might be engaging in that it would need to be rugged and ready for? And what about that pimped out, pseudo-chrome font they are using for the logo, not to mention the customized Caddy with the big back seat they've got pictured? How are horny little christian kids supposed to keep their pants on when the first thing they see on the page reminds them of all those gluttonous rock and rap videos featuring oiled up video hos pouring Moet on themselves and humping the hoods of expensive cars? Stop teasing us, Matt Smith!

Speaking of teasing us, Matty is also the mastermind behind another inspirational website, Porn Destroys Women, that doesn't seem to really have an aim, other than to trot out countless statistics, such as "80%—15–17 year olds having multiple hard-core exposures" and "26—Children's characters linked to thousands of porn links (including Pokemon and Action Man)." First of all, what does this even mean? Second of all, only a handful of these stats include reference citations, only a couple of which sound like they might be from legitimate sources and not just Matt's minister. Third, sounds like Smitty did his research, if you know what I'm sayin'. The big perv.

And, finally, of course "Action Man" is connected to thousands of porn links. He's Action Man, for god sakes!

I think what Matty is trying to tell us through these sites is that if you happen to be a chick, you are a brazen hussy by birth and you must do all you can to keep boys away from your danger zone, because they just can't control themselves. It's a test from god. If you "let them" fuck you, well then you, Hester, have no respect for yourself and you'll instantly be branded as the town whore. Sage advice from a former Real Worlder. I think if he wants to promote abstinence, he ought to just post a few pics of himself. One look at his washed-out, doughy mug and that's pretty much all you need to never want to have sex again.

God, what a prick. Maybe Matt should also be the spokesperson for Wholesome Swimwear. Because all those bikini-clad tramps on the beach need saved from errant penii, too.


Bloodbath!, or The Mayhem Concert Experience

I think it's pretty safe to say that nothing, short of million-dollar payoffs and/or a guaranteed session of "seven minutes in the closet" with Ville Valo, could make me attend a Mayhem concert. I'm afraid of pictures of them; if I saw them in person, they would probably smell my fear from the stage, drag me up before the crowd and make me wear a goat carcass while all the mean goths point and laugh.

Now, thanks to this video clip, I'm not so sure. This would be Mayhem performing the memorable hit "My Death" at something called "Wacken Open Air 2004", which is the biggest heavy metal festival in all the land. Yes, the show features ripping guitar solos, self-mutilation and all the double-kick bass drum you can handle but despite all that I have to say, I'm disappointed. Lead singer Maniac lowers around the stage wearing mime face paint and licking his own blood off his arms; I don't know what's grosser—his slashed up bloody arms or his pasty naked gut. Then someone on the side of the stage hoses him down during the guitar solo, and suddenly I'm rethinking my heterosexuality.

And then there's the crowd. Perhaps they are worn out from the three-day festival or feeling oppressed by the August heat. Or maybe they're just too stoned to care. But instead of ripping each other to shreds there is basically just a sea of long-haired German kids engaging in a bad-headbanging-paired-with-devil-horns-metal-hand-gesture, peppered with a few half-hearted crowd surfers. In other words: a crushing letdown.

I'm sorry, but this video clip is more entertaining. And as an aside, I want to know where you can go to get Mayhem on karaoke. The last time I went they didn't even have "Time After Time."

In case you were wondering (ha ha), this year's Wacken fest will be held August 3–5 in Germany, and features such metal greats as Ministry, Whitesnake (for some reason), Motorhead, the Scorpions and Morbid Angel, as well as Mayhem's rivals in the crazy department Emperor. Camping is available, which I can't possibly imagine. Not to be a big camping snob or anything, but GROSS. If people thought Woodstock '99 was bad, god help us if Mayhem and Emperor fans are set loose in that forum—the bodily fluid spillage alone would require a federal biohazard team for cleanup, not to mention the campfire sacrifices and potentially deadly black metal posturing. Anyway, that's all pure speculation. Confirmed activities are decidedly much tamer and include metal karaoke, a headbanging contest (plenty of competitors in that Mayhem crowd), and a fully accredited tattoo booth. Holy shit, there is also going to be a meet-and-greet with CELTIC FROST! Sweet.

Let me know if you go...I want details.


UPDATE: Cracked out Pete pic located!

And the plaque goes to...LORD GRIMSMEAR! He was the first Stupid & Contagious reader to find this completely awesome pic of Pete Doherty in the wheelchair that I mentioned in yesterday's post. Congrats, Grimsmear!


Creature of the wheel(chair)

The astoundingly shitfaced individual pictured at left is Babyshambles frontman/supermodel debaser/professional tweaker Pete Doherty, who we have discussed here previously. I had to settle for including this pic as opposed to the one I REALLY wanted to post, as it strangely doesn't seem to have the rounds on the 'net yet.

This is too bad because it's one of the best meltdown rocker pics I've ever seen. So what happened was, our little Petey got 'faced on a flight to Sweden and was detained after shooting up in the bathroom—hope they didn't hit turbulence! *rim shot* Upon the plane's arrival, Pete was too plastered to even stand so air marshalls stuffed him in a wheelchair to get him off the plane. The new Rolling Stone (the one with Depp on the cover) features the must-see photo of a fucked-up Pete being carted through the terminal in one of those little fold-up things like a gigantic retarded baby.

But it's what happened next that, disappointingly, the paparazzi seems to have failed to capture: he FELL OUT of the wheelchair and began squirming around on the terminal floor while flipping everyone off. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHERE ARE THE PICTURES OF THIS?? Even a grainy camera-phone shot will do. You can't tell me that NO ONE, whether it's an enterprising photographer or just a random traveler on their way to the baggage claim, snapped a photo of a crackhead tabloid darling falling out of a fucking wheelchair, that he was in because he was loaded and unruly on an international flight in the first place. The Sun alone would have probably paid thousands for this. But it appears that this may actually be the one time in history that everyone, everywhere was sleeping at the wheel.

Anyway, the story is funny, but it would be much funnier with the picture. I promise I'll post it once I find one...or if anyone wants to do the work for my lazy ass and scan in the shot from Rolling Stone, I'll give you a plaque.

Of course, all this raises the obvious question: why doesn't Pete just travel around on one of those Jazzy mobility scooters that old people ride around on? I'D totally ride around on one if I was amped up on speedballs all day. He could probably even write off the purchase; plus, he would likely start a new fad among London's nouveau-mod teens—imagine all the little hipsters in their skinny ties and felt fedoras putzing around Londontown on Rascals. He could even take it a step further by also installing one of those motorized seats that carries you up the stairs in his apartment to cut down on embarrassing drug-fuelled falls. And all his junkie friends would have a blast taking rides on it!

While we're at it, we need to also protect the public at large from Pete's shenannigans. Brits, please get a law enacted that requires Pete to go door-to-door and announce his arrival to the neighborhood, like registered sex offenders have to do. Because people need to know if they are in danger of being exsanguinated while they sleep, or having a shower of funk-tainted blood geysered at them from a filthy syringe, or of having a Jaguar spilling over with tripping speed freaks ripping through the yard and mowing down everything in sight. Take another look at that picture above: would YOU want this guy within 100 feet of you? He's so wasted! And the stink is practically oozing off of him and through the camera lens. Come to think of it, the sheer odor emulating off of his pale scabby body might even be worse than the rampant drug use. At least save us all from that shit.


And now, a few zillion words from Tromsø Prison

What better way to celebrate independence than with a visit to the Burzum website, created and maintained by the eternally independent Varg Vikernes, alias Count Grishnackh? Although he's a resident of Norwegian prison Trondheim Fengsel for murder, arson, and general jackassery, he still manages to stick it to the man through words. And more words. And more and more and more and more words. How very inspiring on this day that's all about freedom!

Actually, I lied a little bit there. He's now actually a resident of Tromsø Prison, because according to the latest news from the Burzum supersite he's been moved and, "The letters sent before this must have probably been lost or maybe they will be forwarded to the new prison." What? You mean you didn't get a reply from the Count? I don't believe it. I couldn't imagine so verbose a wordsmith as our fair Count would even think of not replying to one of his many fan letters with some rambling manifesto, so I'm guessing that it's even more likely that he really DID get the letters...and ate them! Because the Count likes to eat people's dreams.

I also have to point out that I find it hilarious that even though the Count hates anything having to do with anything other than Norway, the site conveniently welcomes visitors with a choice of translations into Norse or—WHAT?—English! Don't tell me that you're giving in to get your point to more minions.

The Count is putting his time behind bars to good use. Since he can't have bayonets in the can, his weapon of choice now is the pen and his preferred method of murder is to overwhelm people with the sheer volume of his inane ramblings. Like the Birdman of Alcatraz, the Count is attempting to establish himself as the world's foremost expert on one topic—convaluted Viking lore. I have no idea if any of these stories are based on fact because each "article" consists of approximately 865 million words and his writing style makes reading calculus problems seem like fun. So if you want to read "Pagan Love" and "Hygiene in the Pagan Era" yourself, go for it.

But, I'm still willing to dip far enough in to get a few good "Count quotables" for you, just so we can get a nice outline of his views.

On survival: "Natural selection means survival of the fittest, alright, but that is basically survival of the most cunning. Predators survive and thrive not because they are courageous, noble and strong, but because they use all the deceptive means available to them in order to survive, because they generally speaking only attack those weaker than them, and because they have absolutely no empathy, honour, mercy or pity whatsoever." (In other words, Euronymous was not cunning enough to not die from 23 stab wounds to his back and head. But at least the Count feels really bad about killing him.)

On metal fans: "Smoking pot or getting drunk, sleeping around and giving each other venereal diseases, partying all the time, going to concerts to meet other vacuum-heads, and so forth. What's the point?" (Yeah, so?)

On media bias (his all-time favorite topic): "There are several characters named Varg Vikernes in Norway. One is the demonized, alienated, pilloried and ostracized bugbear denounced by the Jew-press and the so-called judicial system in Norway...another Varg is the prisoner, writing articles, like this one, to stay sane, but also to not let the false accusations and biased lie-propaganda stand unopposed." (Wait a minute, are we sure this isn't a quote from Britney? I guess it has to be from the Count because he used so many big words and didn't say "ya know" once...but I swear it sounded just like Britney. Hm. Weird.)

On his release: "I have been told that some people expect a lot from me when I am released. Well; don't expect anything. Unless You look for my books or albums You can expect to never hear from or about me again. I don't want anything to do with You or the thoroughly sick world You live in. Count me out. I am going home, to the Norwegian countryside, to the wilderness and fresh air, to a healthy farm-life and Mother Earth's embrace. You can have Your plagued urban brothel and Your sick mongrel Hell on Earth to Yourself. "

Wait a minute. Did I just read that right? The Count is going to vanish into obscurity upon his release? What about the race war? What about the plan to produce as many blonde and blue-eyed children as possible? And most importantly, what about Burzum??? Surely he jests when he says we can expect to never hear from him again. The world is starving for more screamy unintelligible songs and ranty garbled missives about his persecution! I simply can't believe it...I'm so disappointed in you, Count. At the very least you should dress in a horned helmet, steal a model Viking warship and drive it menacingly close to shore while you scream about Leif Erikson and swing one of those spiked ball weapons around your head.

And why in the world did he capitalize "you" though that whole thing and not "me"? None of it makes any kind of sense.

Ah, well. Anyway, the Count leaves us with this inspiring quote: "Meglio soli che mal accompagnati. (It is better to be alone than in bad company.)" So true, Count, so true. I guess the whole world is bad company to you, and I can totally understand how you can feel that way, what with everyone in a massive, calculated plot against you. But I know you're going to get starved for attention and publicity and poke your little mini-Hitler head out from your utopia fiefdom and yell at everyone again. Someday


Smells like a shitty cover

So MSNBC just did an article on the "Top Timeless Cover Songs" for some reason. To be honest, I was a little afraid to look at the list for fear that they would include some novelty pop bullshit because it's "fun" or some such shit, but they actually compiled a fairly decent list. I don't know who exactly "they" are, but whoever it is won me over with the inclusion of Siouxie & the Banshees' cover of "Dear Prudence" and Satan and Adam's version of "Ode to Billy Joe." What WERE they throwing off the bridge in that song anyway? Let's hope it's Tori Amos. Because as the article so rightly observes, "Some of our favorite songs can be turned ugly in the wrong hands, or more specifically, vocal cords [sic]. Some people who cover classics without the proper expertise to do them justice should probably be locked in a small room with Connie Chung and a piano as punishment."

Yeah, I'm not sure what that means either, but I found the reference to "piano as punishment" oddly prophetic, because in my estimation, the worst cover song of all time EVER is Tori Amos' version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Have you heard this godawful shit? If you haven't, don't download it or anything (downloading music is stealing, by the way) because this virus cannot be spread any more than it already has been. Never in my life have my ears been assaulted with such a defilement. Who does this bitch think she is? I don't care if Tori singlehandedly saves the whales; nothing can redeem her in my eyes, thanks solely to this abomination. I'd like to see anyone justify that pounding away on a harpsichord and practically yodeling a grunge anthem (by NIRVANA, no less) IN ALL SERIOUSNESS is a good idea by any stretch of the imagination; you simply can't. It's like trying to argue that it's a good idea to sit on a grizzly bear's lap and give it a great big hug for a fun camping trip photo op—don't expect everything to not go horribly, gruesomely awry. If this song had been recorded before Kurt's death, then at least we would have an explaination for his suicide.

I know this sounds a little dramatic and harsh, but so is the song. And I am also aware that I'm totally setting myself up to be attacked by rabid Tori fans who are pissed off that I am making fun of their little faerie princess. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one reads this blog! So if I get any comments from people other than my three regular readers then I will pee my pants with excitement.) But I really don't care. Sing along: nothing can stop me now, 'cause I don't care anymore! Bad music makes me angry, but music on this level of bad makes me think I might have actually died and am now residing in whichever circle of hell is reserved for music snobs.

While the majority of my bad cover bile is reserved for this mess, it is not my only target. Sheryl Crow should be executed for what she did to "Sweet Child O' Mine" and "D'Yer M'aker." And there is a whole special category of hatred set aside specifically for the covers done by the idjits of pop, like those ridiculous Duff sisters singing "Our Lips Our Sealed" (does that song still supposedly mean what it supposedly meant when it first came out?) and—god help us—"My Generation", Simpson skanking up "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'" and Mandy Moore doing a whole horrible album of cover songs. "Satisfaction" and "I Love Rock N' Roll" sound better when drunks sing them on karaoke than when Britney spews them out. And I'm not even going to mention Celine Dion screetching "Shook Me All Night Long" at one of those Divas concerts. That made the baby Jesus vomit.

Not that you care, but covers that I can actually get behind include Lemmy and Wendy O. Williams dueting on "Stand By Your Man", H.I.M's version of Chris Isaac's "Wicked Game" (of course), Jane's Addiction's medley of "Rock n' Roll/Sympathy", Nirvana's unplugged renditions of "Oh Me" and "Where Did You Sleep Last Night", Johnny Cash's "Hurt" and "Rusty Cage" and Nine Inch Nails doing "Dead Souls." Of course, these songs are all by artists that I actually like, so maybe these songs really aren't that great...what do I know?

Well, since I think I know everything, I am going to go so far to say that even Limp Bizkit covering The Who is better than this Tori Amos piss. Go ahead and lob insults my way, but someone has to say it: Tori blows, simply because of this. So next June 3, I'm hoping that Billy Joe McAllister throws Tori's frigging piano off the Tallahatchie Bridge taking that atrocious song with it. Skateboarding may not be a crime, but bad covers should be.