Monster Children

Oh man, we missed New York Fashion Week! Apparently it was amazing. Our good friend, Mr. Griff, was there and he said it was crazy. Everyone was skinny and high on coke and having the best time of their lives, he said. Here’re some snaps he sent us on the proviso that we didn’t publish them.

The gravy train just keeps puffing along. Today’s lunch was brought over by Anthony and his buddy, Russ; two chaps with impeccable taste when it comes to buying food for strangers in exchange for stuff that said stranger got for free in the first place so it’s no skin off his (the stranger’s) nose.

Ok, Anthony, talk me through my lunch.

You got what you put in the ad for this thing: double burger with fries and a diet Coke.

No shit? Awesome. Did you guys eat some of these fries already?

No.

Did you spit in the burger?

No, man! We didn’t spit in it.

“Shake Shack” I’ve never had a Shake Shack burger. The line to get one is always too long.

I know.

What do you think of all this?

What?

This thing.

What?

The whole “lunch for a skateboard” thing.

Oh! I think it’s great. You don’t know what you’re getting, so it’s interesting.

It is interesting! At least for you and me. I just wonder if the people reading it actually give a shit about what I had for lunch, though.

No, no. I think they do.

Yeah, I think so, too. This burger is good, dudes.

A burger on a Wednesday is always good.

Thanks for lunch, you dudes.

No problem. I hope it’s still warm.

Brothers, I’m sad to report that Eddie Vedder has been trying to steal our girlfriends since early 1991. It dawned on me this morning while making breakfast for my girlfriend and I in the sunny kitchen of our home. The Pearl Jam song “Black” came on the radio and the love-of-my-life immediately began singing softly along as she flipped through the morning paper. “So what?” You say. I’ll tell you so what: besides “Like A Prayer” my girlfriend doesn’t know any songs!  She’s one of those peculiar people who don’t really take that much notice of music. She likes it, sure, and she can dance like Ginger Rogers; however, she doesn’t catalogue bands, albums and tracks in her head like the rest of us do. She doesn’t really care. So there she is, absentmindedly warbling along with Eddie: “I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a sun in somebody else’s sky, but why, why, why can’t it be miiiiiiiiiiiine.” And suddenly I’m struck with the chilling, revelatory horror that Mr. Vedder has been trying to make off with all our birds since he first came on the scene in 1991.

Let’s deconstruct good ol’ Eddie, shall we? For a start, he’s good-looking in that far-away-eyed, damaged man-boy way that girls really like. They think they can fix him, or, more accurately, he makes them think they can fix him. But they can’t; the big lug ain’t even broke. Next: his deep-ass voice. What do we equate a deep voice with? Anyone? Anyone? That’s right, a massive dick. Why do you think James Earl Jones gets so much pussy? Because he did all those Verizon commercials? Wrong. It’s because his deep baritone is directly proportionate to the length and girth of his wang. This is the reason Michael Cera has never pissed crooked in a stranger’s bathroom; no one wants to make it with Mickey Mouse.

So he’s got a deep voice and he’s handsome; big deal, lot’s of rock stars fit that description. They do, yes. But they don’t write lyrics like Eddie, do they?  And this is the tent-pole that supports my entire hypothesis. Most rock stars write songs about falling in love or breaking up, fucking, fighting, whatever, but Eddie Vedder writes songs about women who are miserable and need to move on to something better. Take the song “Why Go” from Pearl Jam’s first album, Ten.

“She seems to be stronger

But what they want her to be is weak

She could play pretend

She could join the game

She could be another clone.”

Granted, this song is about mental illness or something, but you have to read between the lines: Eddie is on her side. He can see how “they” are keeping her down, how “they” want her to be “weak.” Who are “they”, you ask? He’s talking about every other man on earth besides his good, chivalrous self. Sound far-fetched? Okay, what about this sly piece of trickery from Pearl Jam’s second album, Vs?

“She holds the hand that holds her down.

She will rise above.

Don't call me daughter, not fit to…”

That’s only the tiniest snippet of the song “Daughter”, but it’s pretty obvious that Eddie is trying to brainwash our women into spurning their fathers (or father-figures) and running to him for paternal comfort. I mean, what the fuck is wrong this dude? He’s clever; I’ll give him that. Attacking the delicate and ambiguous arena of Father-Daughter relations is about as low as you can go, but let’s face it, if you’re trying steal the heart of womankind you may as well begin at the bottom and work your way up, just like those delightful Hookworm larvae do.

If you’re not yet convinced that Eddie Vedder wants to pilfer your chick, this next piece of evidence from Vitalogy will certainly change your tune.

“Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop.

Tell him. Take no more. She practices her speech as he opens the door, she rolls over...Pretends to sleep, as he looks her over.

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man...”

How’s that last line? “She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man...” Are you fucking kidding me? He’s planting that shit in your girlfriend’s head right in front of you on prime-time radio! The bastard has imposed an international curfew on dudes! 4AM? Who hasn’t gone out and come home that late? You only have to do it once now, and she’ll get that song in her head and start looking for a “Better Man”! And gee-whiz, I wonder who that better man is?

Piss off, Vedder. I’m watching you.

We’ve all heard it said that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Well, I’m calling shit on that proverb. This is my second free lunch – a lunch I didn’t pay for – and it was delicious. My new friend, Roy, brought it to me at the office, and then he selected an Alien Workshop Dill/Warhol deck and a bunch of MC swag, none of which cost me a penny. Ipso facto, my lunch was free and made only more delicious by that fact…O... Ipso facto, fartso fatso, Pepto Bismol, poopy pacto. What? Speaking of interesting facts, from transcribing these last two interviews I’ve come to realize that when men meet for the first time they call each other “dude” and “man” a lot. Weird. Check it out.

Shit man, sorry I took so long getting here.

It’s all good, dude. I’m not going anywhere anyways.

Cool.

All right, Roy, what’s for lunch, man?

Dude, we got Sophie’s Cuban food. I don’t know if you’ve ever had it before.

I haven’t, no.

I hope it’s still warm. It’s breaded chicken, black rice with beans, fried green plantains with some onions…

Yum, dude!

 …And a malt, Puerto Rican malt. Did you ever try that, man?

No. “Malta India” Looks good!

It’s actually kinda funny, I noticed on the ride over here that I got you lunch that’s half Cuban/ half Puerto Rican, and I’m half Cuban and half Puerto Rican!

You didn’t realize that you’d bought it until you were on your way over?

No, man. It just happened!

That’s so cool!

I know, right?

Man, this looks delicious. I’m starving.

Yeah, sorry I’m late, dude. Check it out, there's also this green sauce.

What is it?

I don't know, just green sauce.

Green sauce. Cool.

Check what Roy does when he's not ruling the lunch project: behance.com/roytorres

The “Give Me Lunch and I’ll Give You a Skateboard” project should be renamed “The Best Idea I Ever Had” project because it is literally the best idea I ever fucking had. Garrett McGale was first to email me at skate4lunch@gmail, so today he got first pick of the boards. He grabbed a very nice Toy Machine deck and some MC merch. Garrett did pretty good, I still feel like I got the better end of the deal, though; he totally hooked-it-up. I should mention that I was insanely hungry, so I probably sound a bit over-stoked. Anyway, I’m completely stuffed now and that’s the main thing. Read on.

Garrett, where are you from?

I’m from Portland originally. I moved to New York about three weeks ago. 

So you just moved?

Yeah. Well, I was living in LA for five years before I came here.

What do you do?

I do freelance work.  Do you know Arkitip magazine?

Yeah.

I do some stuff for them. Right now I’m interning for these graffiti artists, Mint & Serf. Their office is like a block from here.

What do you do for them?

I’m like a videographer.

Cool. All right, man, what’s for lunch?

Okay, here we go.

Whoa! Two burritos?

Yeah, dude, and…I got a six-pack of Pacifico.

Wait. Are you kidding?

Yeah, well, I figured you guys would want to chill on a Friday, so…

You’re not kidding. That’s so rad! Thanks dude! Beers and burritos; I’m blown away!

And here’s a lime, too, dude.

Fuck! For real? You brought a lime for the beers?

Yeah, man.

You’re the best. You’re the first in the door and already the bar is set way, way high. I was expecting a peanut-butter sandwich! This is awesome!

I’m a big fan of Monster Children, man. I wanted to get you guys hyped!

Thanks Garrett!

You got it.

Check out Garrett’s video work: www.garrettmcgale.com

If you're in the New York area, I need some lunch. Bring some lunch by the office and I'll give you a new deck and some other swagage.

Email: skate4lunch@gmail.com

Starving!

The NY Giants won the football so they're having a massive parade right outside my office window, which totally sucks. I like a parade, sure, but it went on forever! I did get to litter with impunity, though; shouldn't complain.

Welcome to Book Club, a club about whatever book I happen to be reading. It’s not really a club, is it? I’m the only member. If there were two of us we could call it a club, but it’s just me alone with my Kindle and my thoughts. Yeah, I bought a Kindle, and don’t give me that, “Oh, you’re killing the publishing industry” garbage because I’m actually supporting publishing more than ever. Before I got my little grey friend I was buying mostly second hand paperbacks; occasionally I’d pick up a new book but mostly I’d just get second hand stuff. Now, however, I buy a book every fifteen minutes. I don’t read them- I just buy them. I can’t stop. Right now I’m reading Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi. I’m kind of amazed at how many of my friends have read this. I knew it existed but I was never that into true-crime novels (or crime novels for that matter) so I never bothered picking it up. Then I saw Chaz Manson at one of his parole hearings on TV and thought, “That guy is fucking banananas!” Not just Bananas, he’s legitimately Banananas. Guys a kook! So I pressed a few buttons on my ready-machine and bought the book. The author of Helter Skelter, Bugliosi, was the attorney that put Manson in jail, so it's pretty much a first hand account of all the gnarly shit that went down. It’s actually a pretty scary read, but then I’m a major pussy. I was just talking about this the other day with a friend. When I was a kid I’d read all my mother’s Stephen King novels and be fine. Sometimes I even read her Jackie Collins novels and get a boner (sorry mum!). So I’d read IT, Pet Cemetery, Thinner, all that creepy shit, and I’d be perfectly fine. Now, as an adult, I get freaked-the-fuck-out by scary books. Two years ago I picked up Salem’s Lot, read a chapter, and then put it down forever. I was freaked! Couldn’t get to sleep that night because I kept hearing noises in the house. So ridiculous, but there you have it: the older you get- the pussier you are.

Anyway, Helter Skelter. It’s a good book. That concludes Book Cluuuuuuuuub.

Because the response to “I’m a Good Boyfriend & So Can You” was so positive, I’ve decided to republish my “7 Tips for Aspiring Writers”. Yes, Pancho, I’m recycling. But this malarkey was first published at wooooomag.com, which means only about twelve people read it.  Now why should a single dozen people benefit from these invaluable words of advice and go on to literary fame and fortune? That’s not fair, is it? So here it is again. You can thank me when your novel gets published.

“Good writers write. They don’t always write well, but they must write!” I read that today while researching good writing habits on the Internet. There’re a gazillion essays, blog posts and books offering advice on how to be successful with your writing, but they all seem to say the same thing: You must write! Well, duh. If you’re a plumber you must plumb! A baker? He must bake! That’s a glaringly obvious fact, not a system of guidelines. The problem is, writers are cagey fuckers that guard their disciplines almost as jealously as they hide their ideas. If they know anything about writing, they know to keep their mouth shut. I know; I’m a writer. I write because I must.

I’ve met with writers in the past, writers I read and respect, and no amount of groveling could squeeze even the smallest nugget of wisdom out of them. They just recommended that I write. So I did write, and now, with somewhere in the vicinity of 200 interviews and at least 5 actual published pieces of prose under my belt, I offer you, fledgling scribe, my top seven tips on how to write and write well. Let the pontification begin.

Tip 1. Don’t write unless you are being paid to write.

Why would anyone sit down at their desk and bruise their fingertips for free? If you are going to write, make sure you are being paid to write. Don’t even write in a diary unless you’ve negotiated an equitable fee with yourself. I think we all did enough complimentary penmanship at school, don’t you? Are you still at school or are you a big grown up who writes for a job? Practice? Practice is for the ungifted. Don’t put down a single letter until you know you’ll be remunerated for your efforts. Writing is work, not charity.

Tip 2. Drink.

All the great writers drank like fish: Ernest Hemmingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ethan Hawke, etc. There’s no point trying to write a single word sober, you’ll only disappoint yourself and your family. Start the workday with a six-pack, and then work your way up to a bottle of Johnny Walker Black; that’s when the magic happens.

Tip 3. Dispose of Sexual Tension.

Nothing slows down the creative process faster than built up sexual tension. The average male thinks about sex once every 15 seconds, so how is the Great American Novel going to flow through his finger tips when boobs and blowjobs are constantly swirling in his mind? I suggest that the novice writer masturbate before he even opens his first beer of the day. It’s the only way to ensure the single-mindedness needed to practice the great craft of writing. In fact, the more sexual tension you can rid your mind and body of the better. Stephen King himself recommends 5-6 wank breaks per day, and he wrote Pet Cemetery. PET CEMETARY!

Tip 4. Lie about your progress.

Always exaggerate when discussing your progress as a writer. If you have no projects on the go, say you had dinner with Graydon (Carter) at the Waverly last night to discuss future stories. Then say that none of his proposed ideas jumped out at you, so you’ll just wait and see what happens. Under no circumstances should a writer divulge the truth about his pathetic output, ennui, or suicidal thoughts, not even to other writers. Telling other writers about your troubles is like leaping into shark-infested waters wearing a suit made of ham. Don’t do it. They’ll only gossip about your shortcomings to make themselves look and feel better. Always, always, always lie about your progress. Even if you won a Pulitzer Prize, say you won three.

Tip 5. Read.

All good writers read because they know that reading will learn them new words and stuff. An osmotic process goes to work when you read: it’s called “learning”. The more you read, the more you learn, and not just about what the girl with dragon tattoo did after she kicked the hornet’s nest (spoiler: she defecated in the oatmeal), but about the function of sentence structure and rhythm and all that egg-headed horse-shit. The second and most important reason you should read is so you can discover other writer’s mistakes and sneer at them. You can’t imagine the joy you’ll experience when you discover Steinbeck used “get” in the same saw-toothed sentence twice. What an idiot!

Tip 6. Don’t eat.

Eating, as we all now, is cheating. Don’t let yourself be distracted by nagging hunger: light a cigarette. Don’t smoke? Have a cigarette. A) It’ll suppress your irksome craving for sustenance, and B) You’ll look cool as shit. Do a Google image search of Charles Bukowski; the guy may have looked like a fat piece of over-done bacon wearing a wig, but he was rarely seen without a cigarette: cool. Now look up Oprah: Pff. Gay.

Tip 7. Don’t bother with rewrites.

You’ve written it. It’s there on the page, see? Job done. Now why in the name of heck would you do it again? To make it better? Don’t be stupid. Ever heard of a little thing called, “First thought, best thought”? I think it was Kerouac who said that, and he knew that no one was going to re-skin his bongo drums for him while he “re-wrote” some shit he already wrote. Rewrite! Fucking hell! You may as well “re-read” something while you’re at it. Why not “re-eat” your lunch, too? Stupid. Just look at this thing you just read- I wrote it once and then walked away; I didn’t even read it! I just finished, stood up, kicked my chair over and walked away. Done. 

The Fry Chronicles by Stephen Fry.

Serial Killer PEZ dispenser series, why haven’t they done that yet? Charlie Manson, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy. Delicious. You can have that, PEZ Inc. Enjoy.

Friends, welcome to my Book Club. Many of you may remember my Book Club from the now dormant Wooooo Magazine blog; several of you probably enjoyed it. Book Club is basically me talking about what I’m reading this week and what I think of it.  I try to read a book-per-week, which is kind of unrealistic when you’re not bedridden or lonely, but as a writer I think it’s important to strive to read as much as possible. After all, how can one write if one does not read? One can hardly expect to effectively direct a movie if one doesn’t watch movies, surely. How can one make cheese if one does not eat cheese? You might be asking yourself why one is using the third person singular, “one” so much right now. I’ll tell you why, because one is reading Stephen Fry’s autobiography The Fry Chronicles, that’s why. Hurrah! Quite.

I love Stephen Fry. He’s an insanely pompous old poof but, my God, does he have a way with words. Those of you who are unfamiliar with Stephen might care to crawl out from under your rock, travel back in time to about 1993 and turn on BBC2.

Stephen Fry is an award-winning comedian, actor, presenter, director and author. He rose to fame alongside Hugh Laurie (aka Dr. House) in A Bit of Fry and Laurie, but, for my money, he’s most memorable as Captain Melchett in Blackadder. More recently he presented the television series Stephen Fry in America which has to be one of the most engaging programs I’ve seen in ages, though that says very little considering how utterly fucked TV is these days.

The Fry Chronicles is Stephen’s second autobiographical work, the first being Moab Is My Washpot. Chronicles picks up where Moab left off (the 20 year mark) and tells of Stephen’s trials and tribulations and all that stuff you read about in autobiographies. I won’t give too much away (in fact I’ll give away nothing), but I will say that if you like autobiographies you’ll enjoy this one.

That concludes Book Club for this week. Bong on.

It took me nigh on twenty years but I’ve finally figured out how to be a good boyfriend. I’ve never been a “bad boyfriend” per se, but until now I was never really a great one.  Suddenly, though, I find that I am a fantastic boyfriend, and you can be just as awesome if you follow my 10 Good Boyfriend Commandments.

1. Notice if her hair changes. If you only adhere to one of the rules I’ve listed here, make it this one. I cannot stress enough the importance of noticing her hair. Even if you only have a vague suspicion that she’s done something new to her mop – trimmed two millimeters from her bangs, for instance – mention it. A dude could get ‘Yahtzee!’ shaved into his scalp and if his girl didn't notice, he’d be okay. Chicks, however, see a guy's failure to notice even the slightest coiffure modification as a crack in the romantic substructure, and they’ll worry that crack until it genuinely exists. “Wow! I like your hair today. What did you do?” These ten words will save you from so, so much misery. 

2. Tell her she looks good. Duh, I know. But you’d be surprised how many guys overlook this in favor of just thinking it to themselves. If you hear your brain mumble, “Damn, Kylie’s bum looks awesome in those jeans,” you should get your mouth to pass that information on. However, if your brain says, “I could seriously smash Kylie’s ass to pieces with my pork-sword today,” keep it to yourself…unless you’ve got a girlfriend who likes that kind of talk, you lucky bastard.

3. Flowers. You’ll feel like a top-shelf Gaylord walking down the street with a bunch of flowers, but chicks are crazy about them– even the ones who say they aren’t. I never used to buy flowers for girlfriends because I assumed that it was the most obvious, clichéd gesture imaginable and they simply wouldn’t appreciate it. I was wrong. They really, really appreciate it. And don’t just buy flowers on Valentine’s Day either; get them on random days, any day, Monday, it doesn’t matter. Just go get some flowers and watch her swoon.

4. Poetry. Poetry is another cornball effort, but, again, girls love that stuff. When you write a poem for your ol’ lady, you want to reference the elements: the moon, the stars, the sun, the sea, etc,. And you want to make it sound like you’re in pain. I wrote a poem for a girl once when I was sixteen and I could practically hear her Bartholin’s glands percolating while she read it. Don’t worry if your poem sucks gorilla’s balls, she’ll still like it because you went out on a limb to show your feelings, you big, sensitive bugger.

5. Kissing at the lights. You’re walking down the street with your chick and then you come to a red light at an intersection. Don’t just stand there – give her a kiss on the cheek! Girls love random acts of affection, particularly when performed in public and without a sexual agenda. Give her a peck and a smile and then cross the street. Christ, I’m good at this.

6. Photos of cute animals hugging. This one works a charm on my bird. Yesterday I found a picture of a squirrel trying to hump a kitten and I sent it to her with the subject heading, “This is us!” Now I’ve got a BJ in the mail. If you’re clever about it, you can literally trade cute animal photos for sex, that’s all I’m saying.

7. Food. Cook that bitch something every now and again. She’ll repay you in spades, or, if you’re lucky, rusty trombones.

8. Flatulence. If you can help it, don’t fart. You know when you’re watching a movie or whatever and she lets one slip? How gross is that? Now imagine how bad your farts are to her, you big Yeti! No one wants to snuggle with a stink bomb, so lay off the curried eggs and enjoy a fruitful romance. If you absolutely have to fart, leave the room, do it in the bathroom or out in the hall. The thing is, if you open the fart-floodgates, she’ll be dealing you Dutch-ovens within a week. Believe me, she’s just waiting for you to give her the green light so she can start dropping them like Axle Rose on a three-day cauliflower binge.

9. Masturbation. I can think of nothing better than walking in on my significant other while she’s rubbing one out. Just the thought of her having a crack at herself gives me the tingles. Oddly enough, girls don’t feel the same way about us having a wank; they think it’s creepy. In many ways women view us as dirty monkeys who can’t keep their grubby paws out of their diapers. So don’t let her see you wringing out your spuds, because she won’t like it. She knows you do it, but for whatever weird, uptight, puritanical reason, she doesn’t want to witness it. Go figure.

10. Listen. My god, this is the most difficult lesson to learn. They talk so much, don’t they? It’s insane. I love the sound of my girlfriend’s voice; it’s like a little bell. But sometimes she’ll be talking and that’s all I’ll hear: a sweet little bell tinkling away. Next thing you know I’m in trouble because I have no idea when Michelle from the office changed dentists, or why Aunty Hillary’s cat had a hysterectomy. “You never listen!” She says, and the worst thing you can do in this situation is accuse her of being equally inattentive. She is attentive, my friend, preternaturally so. She remembers your mother’s birthday, she remembers that thing you said when you were drunk, and she remembers how many burritos you had in 2003; don’t fuck with her.

Okay, that’s it. If you can remember all this stuff – and learn how to eat her pussy without the hands coming down to yank you out – you’ll be the best boyfriend she ever had, and that’ll almost certainly make her the best girlfriend you ever had.

You're welcome.

Our good buddy Jay Howell has just done a music video for Sacramento's favorite sons, Trash Talk, and it is very rad.

Nice one, dick head. 

The worst thing about this situation is that instead of ‘unliking’ Monster Children’s FB page, you stick around to be repeatedly offended. Why can’t you fuck off? You don’t belong. Monster Children isn’t your cup of tea and you certainly are not ours. What kind of person follows a mag like MC and then reports them when they see a nipple or a bum or, in the case of this photo, absolutely nothing? I’ll tell you what kind of person: a pathetic one. Get a life, mate, or, better yet, come forward so I can stomp you into the ground, you worthless, cowardly, insipid piece of shit. Show your face, idiot. I dare you.

In closing I’d to thank all the real Monster Children fans for getting ‘it’ and not being offended by the human body. You guys rule and will always rule. 

Mr. (or Miss) Easily offended? Just leave. No one wants you here. You’re not a part of what’s happening.

Hugs!

xxx

JC.

Because I don’t like myself and I think I don’t deserve any better, I’ve spent the day looking at photographer portfolios online. If I see another group of good-looking young people prancing in the woods I’ll eye-butt a broken bottle. It’s a big world, people, with a ton of crap going on all the time; why do you keep visiting nature in your underwear? No one cares! Ryan McGinley is rolling in his grave - the guy aint even dead yet.  Man, I’m angry. Blood, boobs, misty glades, interesting rocks, feathers, nymphs frolicking waist-deep in wildflower fields: fuck off. I’ve had it. Snap out of it or I’ll punch yours and my head in. Enough. You know what I haven’t had enough of, though? Ironic, pro-Satan poppycock; I can’t get enough of that. I like it so much, I even make my own.

What happens when you haven’t seen your chick for almost three months? You pull taffy. Because of travel commitments, my woman and I haven’t seen each other in nearly 90 days. We’re like ships in the night, really, really horny ships in the night. And so I’ve been pulling taffy by the mile. Eventually though, pulling taffy is about as much fun as tasting but not swallowing your food, so I’ve stopped in favor of watching my testicles swell to the size of overripe avocados. I gave them a flick in the shower this morning and they pinged like a basketball. Actually, that reminds me of a story. This guy I met one time had two pet Dobermans and an avocado tree. When the avocados ripened, they’d fall from the tree and one of his dogs would eat them. “How can I get Satan (good Doberman name) to stop eating all my fucking avocados?” asked my friend to himself or anyone within earshot. Then one day he came upon the idea of putting paprika on the precious fruit whilst they still hung from the tree. Low and behold, Satan didn’t like paprika and went off avocados. Zeus, on the other hand, discovered a taste for them now they were spicy, and he took over where Satan left off. It’s a funny story. Unfortunately it ends with both dogs being shot and buried beneath their favorite tree. How sexy are frogwomen?

What's up, ya'll? It's 2012 and already the MC staff are hard at work getting the new issue together. This will be my first issue as editor in chief, so I'm making sure it's the best issue ever. Notice I didn't put an exclamation mark at the end of that last sentence? That's because I want to sound resolute. I want you to know I mean fucking business. How are you by the way? That's enough; back to WORK!

I'm in Sydney! I'm actually at the MC office right now, sitting between my soon-to-be Demon Overlords, Campbell and Chris. I'll officially be the Ed on January 1st 2012. Until then I'm getting drunk. Sydney rules. How good is this picture?

I need money, man. Do you need some words? I can bartend, too. Lemi know. You should read this book if you haven't already. It's all about being a kid and dealing with Satanic Ritual abuse- you know, when the people who run the kindergarten are devil worshipers and they use the little-uns for their unholy rites? Where was this book when I was being fiddled with by Satanists? It's not fair.