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Boom Boom In My Pantaloon

Rickshaw Rampage




February 16th, 2011

Here's what you may have to read before the following piece of fiction that I think is probably basically true:



Simone Wilson interlaced her manicured fingers - metallic blue emoticons printed onto nails kept short enough for comfortable typing - and pressed her palms outward, cracking her knuckles as she reclined smiling. Her lips moved, mouthing the words as she re-read her statements, following the narrative about a reporter for a major news provider being beaten and raped during a revolution in Egypt. Her pupils drifted over the cascade of letters, taking each in and parsing them, maintaining a sense of narrative while her mind wandered into the aether of Los Angeles. It was award season. Oscar was approaching. She’d managed to score tickets to the Globes AND the Grammy’s this year already and there were rumors that her editor at the LA Weekly knew one of the producers of the Big Show and someone on the staff was going to get a bonus in the form of a trip to Hollywood's annual Kingmaking pageant.

The article’s words began mixing with her Oscar fantasy. She saw herself on the Red Carpet, a gang of Arabs dressed in ragged tuxedos shoving her into the spotlights; flashing paparazzi bulbs illuminating her Kors dress and the jangling bracelets glinting from around her thin wrists, custom Prada handbag matching the shade of lipstick surrounding her perfect smile. Sexual misadventures made up the second half of the article and her mind’s eye cast the reporter in a series of LaChapelles, bound by mic cords tied to Peabodys, escorted into the Oscars by a host of brutes massaging hard-ons in their sparkling satin robes, faces painted in the gold visage of the Statue Himself. Simone’s grin widened and the end of the article brought her back from the reverie.

She blinked and her eyes made a typewriter motion, drifting over the last sentence twice more before she decided it was perfect, slid her fingers over the mouse and dropped her index into the button, posting the completed article.


“I’m not answering another god damned question about this fucking article, Simone!” Her editor was furiously deflecting barbed arrows fired from NPR, Slate, their readership and a bevy of victimized women who found the entire blog affair in extremely poor taste.

Simone didn’t understand what they didn’t like about the article. It wasn’t a work of art and she didn’t have any illusions about where she stood in the pantheon of news reportage but what about the article, specifically, she’d asked a variety of comment posters, had they taken umbrage at? They came back with an admixture of vitriol and absurdity, rejecting the characterisation of Laura Logan as a buxom blonde with a home wrecking seductive side in an article ostensibly about her sexual assault.

Why, Simone wanted to know, would an attractive woman not want people to know she was such a red hot sex pot?! She posed her questions but faced an impenetrable wall of ego coming from every angle. As the emails mounted her Red Carpet visions became clouded, fuzzy, dissipated as her editor forwarded missive after missive, a mounting wave of heated fury glaring from the electric abyss. “Fine,” she thought to herself. “If they want to watch me eat crow, I’ll have a five star chef whip up the finest crow pate Los Angeles can offer and I’ll scarf it down with a smile!”

She riposted the litany of slanders with “OMG, guyz, didn’t realize you’d be so SENSITIVE!” then deleted it, deciding against sarcasm despite her gut’s reaction to an inbox full of “fuck you.” Taking another tack, she asked herself if maybe they were right; if what she’d written had gone too far beyond the boundaries of taste; if, perhaps, her own predilection for obsessing over US Weekly and Annie Leibovitz Esquire spreads had too well informed an article that was intended to aid in the expansion of knowledge surrounding a terrible act.

A lungful of carbon dioxide drifted through her lips in a sigh.

“Noooo,” she said aloud and began her recalcitrance anew, opening with a statement about rape being wrong before casting a sidelong glance at Slate for trying to make her the villain. As she typed her red carpet fantasy returned, a glowing phantasm shimmering just the other side of her apology, a series of talking points meant to sway her editor back into her corner sliding into bullet points in the back of her mind. God damn it, this was her year and she was getting into the show!

An epilogue fastened to the end of her article emerged and she saw the waves of hatred part before her. “We’re mostly just glad...[she’s] well on her way back to fighting the good fight for truth, journalism and girls who happen to fall on the gorgeous side of the fight for truthful journalism.” Article complete, once again, and this time who could possibly find it an affront? She’d laid it out quite plainly in a way that any idiot could understand. She was talking about a BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. And beautiful people have to put up with attention, positive and negative, from all kinds of people. I should know, Simone thought. After all, I’m going to the Oscars, and they don’t very well let ugly people into award shows, now do they?

September 13th, 2008

Long Time Away, But Whatevs


This is where you can go to offer Bristol Palin money to abort the baby.

April 9th, 2008

Uwe Boll: Media Hero

Holy shit it's been awhile since I've posted here. Maybe I should start doing it more often. Do I even have readers anymore? Aw, well, no matter.

I'm trying to make this video the next most awesome thing on the internet (it already probably is), and as such am pushing it on everyone I can find. Uwe Boll's response to an internet petition to get him to stop making movies:


December 16th, 2007

Bloggo Musico

Cosmic Hearse looks to be a pretty awesome music blog.

December 9th, 2007


Swamp Cox, where you can go to see trailers for shit that you might not see anywhere else. Grindhouse, gore, screwball sex comedy, whatevs. Check it out often.

Today was the first day, so we kind of went apeshit posting trailers, but in the future it'll be a little bit more organized, I'm sure. Waste some time and learn some stuff all at the same time! Find out what's missing from your Netflix queue! Why are you still reading this? Go to fucking Swamp Cox and watch some trailers!

December 2nd, 2007

Images of a Guiliani Future

Fifteen abreast and hundreds, possibly thousands, deep – the Swordwolf’s army, resplendent atop their mopeds, flying briskly across the wastelands of middle America, destroying all that lies in their path. Swathed in shimmering silver cloaks and aviator goggles; leather jackets and knitted scarves; brazenly painted helmets and the heads of those who’ve fallen before their endless onslaught. These are the disaffected gone mad, turned to the whimsy of their lunatic inspiration, herded by the man called Dearg Doom, stout Irish hipster and master of the Puch X50 custom which leads the pack from highway to highway, town to town, decimation to decimation. Behind them the red sun risen high, igniting their spirit and encircling them in a halo of solar flame, roaring like the cacophonous cadences emergent from their 50cc engines and collective war cries. The desert earth smoldering; asphalt blackened. They thirst for murder, swarming the small towns and leaving naught but picked remains for the buzzards and dogs. There is no future. There is no hope. This is the machination of the Swordwolf, long may he reign.

November 30th, 2007

Psychedelic Tape Traders


Smooth Assailing. I guess tape trading isn't dead at all. It's just hiding on the internet.

November 5th, 2007

November 4th, 2007

Metal Quote of the Day

Because black metal can be a treacherous animal...

"Well, I don't speak German, but I'm pretty sure we're not listening to anti-semitic music right now."

The Future

I don't even have one yet, and I'm crazy stoked about owning a moped, this is definitely part of it:

And here's what I'm looking forward to:

Yeah, that's right. A motherfuckin' Honda Hobbit!
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