Punch a CEO in the Dick

I used to be a janitor once. I got fired for huffing whatever was inside of the plastic spray bottles they gave me. Hey, it was a pretty intense 20 minutes of work, and I needed some refreshment. So I just walked off the job in protest with a free janitor's cart full of all the supplies I need to make some potent Riverside County-strength crank. So much for my first day at work. Suckers!

The point is, no one needs janitors. The people in Century City have said as much in between corporate coke meetings and the inter-office stroke fest that surrounds their meaningless lives. They let janitors strike and close down traffic in protest a few days ago, presumably because they were too busy trying to shovel cash into each others pockets to notice what was going on. Some jagoff wrote an opinion article that sums up nothing about what happened, but that's not that important. What's really important is that janitors are making people wait in traffic for 20 minutes. The nerve of those nasty bastards! We oughtta bring in compact M79s full of CS gas and then have armor roll over whatever is still left on the streets. Nothing short of death is an acceptable punishment for making Steve Payraise late for his daily after work wife-beating, orgy, and/or NAMBLA club meeting.

Ah, that sweet shameful dregs of humanity that I call the internet. Want to see the publicly exposed prejudice of corporate America? Look at the comment section of any LA Times news article--especially one that is in any way related to immigration, immigrants, or even mentions in passing something about Mexico. There you will find self-described corporate executives openly commenting that "the world doesn't need $13.50/hour janitors. Go back to your home countries and look for work there."

My heart smiles with joy at this man or woman's words about exactly how these people should live their lives. Of course he knows what he's talking about, he makes more money per year than you! If he tells you something (i.e. that the holocaust is a Jew sympathy ploy, or that the hollow earth is filled with half-Jew Ry'Leth people who can suck your soul out through your spine like spaghetti) it has to be right. For chrissakes, what's wrong with these people? Don't they recognize the truth when they hear it?! Don't worry, Joe Fuckforbrains has a simple solution to all worldly problems: simply "go back" to your home country. And if you're a Hispanic person born in America, as many of these janitoral workers probably are, then you should just throw a dart at a map of Central America and "go back" to whatever country it lands upon. It makes total fucking sense! Pay no attention to the fact that even a 13 year old, buzzed off his tits from chewing on Elmer's brain-melting glue sticks all day, can poke more holes in that argument than an old world picayune whore house.

So, to recap:
- Being rich means that you're right about everything, and if someone disagrees you can always make some calls; bring in some heavies for ten bucks a head (plus expenses) to come over off the boat like a pack of goddamned wolverines. They'll crack every skull in the city if they have to...and burn all the office buildings right to the ground.
- Poor people are the cause of all problems, everywhere.
- Fuck off!

The Church of Fuckwadology: Rabid Notes from the Heathen Underground

"Sometimes the need to mess with their heads outweighs the millstone of public humiliation."
- Fox Mulder

Layette "Ronnie" Hubbard, a fine piece of humanity if there ever was one, is at the top of the shit list today.

Why?! Fuck you, that's why!! What is this, public school for the hopelessly retarded? "Spike tell us why we're all fucking useless and will be cleaning the floors of the Denny's down the street for the next 48 years after the trust fund runs dry ." If you don't know enough to stay away from Scientology and anyone involved with it, then you deserve to get sodomized by a rabid Tom Cruise. No more distractions. I need to finish this so I can get back to shooting smack directly into the base of my skull.

So I was sleeping in a washed out cardboard box next to another cardboard box when some toolbag with an e-reader came up and asked if I wanted a free stress test. Ten months later and I was Operating Thetan level 3 and meeting all kinds of glamorous, washed-up, secretly gay movie stars. I had thetans on my brain: I did thetan auditing, thetan reharmonization, I was snorting assbumps of high-grade meth off a Venezuelan woman named Thetan...ah, but nothing good lasts when you're finely twisted on religion and 16 other untraceable substances.

Anyway, I'm still out there looking to get my kicks from the next water-brained cult. Religion is a drug and I've already poured it onto a plastic bag and tied it over my head. Like most other drugs, I plan to mainline religion on a semi-professional basis and collapse all of my arteries, veins, and vas deferens to make the nut. Okay, that last metaphor was shit, but you're still lucky to be hearing my scripture without the use of heavy chemical encouragement.

I bring to your attention the Church of Euthanasia. It's a church which advocates mandatory suicide and bandies about slogans like "Eat a Queer Fetus for Jesus". They'd get a stomping from the suckbags from the 700 Club if they didn't scare the hell out of everyone so much. But why? Was it because of this--Following the September 11, 2001 attacks, the CoE posted to its website a four-minute music video titled I Like to Watch, combining hardcore pornographic video with footage of the World Trade Center collapse. (from Wikipedia)

So where do I sign to become an ordained minister?

Glen Beck's "Rally"

Hey Guys, Larry here. Sorry about the multiple pictures I knew I shouldn't have mixed absinthe with a spoonful of speed and some low-grade acid. Anyway, while Spike is taking a coke nap I figured I would let you in on a secret. I'm going to that Glen Beck Rally this weekend. I need to know some things from the man himself.
Like why he's saying he will "Take back the Civil Rights Movement." You can't say shit like that after you've already said this:





OR THIS:






I could fucking do this all day. See I need to find out if Glen Beck is a complete moron who just says whatever comes into his head and can't stop himself(even if that thought is incredibly racist and ignorant) or if he is in fact an evil motherfucker. Maybe he understands that by aligning himself with The Tea Party there are some things he really shouldn't say. Especially, when the Tea Party do this:




OR THIS:




The funny thing is if you search you tube for footage of Tea Party harassment its not on there. Now someone like Glen Beck would probably say "That's because it doesn't exist." Of course...he's a fucking moron. THE TEA PARTY OBVIOUSLY JUST GOT AN IMAGE CONSULTANT. Maybe someone like this: http://www.clean-search.com/
See currently all these fucks have to do is ask someone to take something down. They apparently can also make the congresswomen who was SPIT ON by them look like a racist herself by putting up videos that are extremely misleading:
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=sheila+jackson+lee&aq=f.
The Right Wing Owns the TV, the Radio, and now THEY OWN THE INTERNET.
But, I got off my point. I'm going to the Glen Beck rally but not without my Assault Intervention Device: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_jail_ray_gun

That fucker can make someone shit themselves in 4 seconds flat and it works on multiple people. It can even work on a crowd. I'll fry these fucks like bacon in a heroin soaked pan(that's how spike likes his). I'll need to test this device first of course, anyone have Sarah Palin or Dick Cheney's address handy? Yes, I must test it first to be sure. No professional would settle for less.


Get Ready BeckHeads:

No Hope for the Twisted

Managing bands full of posers like you makes it hard for an honest base head to rub out a dollar from the glass teat called "showbiz". I've had to take part time jobs at different massage parlors, bath houses, coke dens, drug warehouses, the trash can behind Amoeba Music, etc. You're thinking, "Why would anyone hire a smack-fiend who ties off over the nearest sink every 16 minutes?" One word: fucking skills!

Take my last job at the taco cart that I stole from some guy on Cienaga. Did you know that most fast food places have a secret menu? Take the white trash pill-head's den known to you fucks as In-N-Out Burger. Now, I had my own version: if you knew how to order (i.e. by using your mouth) you could get a coke-rolled churro, cup full of pure mescaline on ice, heroin-soaked taco, or a tortilla filled with various pills that I tried to pass off as a burrito. It was all part of my grand dream of mixing Mexican food with a cut-rate "dispensary" made out of my leavings from my latest bender--hey, it was big with grade schoolers (although not so big with that undercover cop).

Three months and 10 jugs of prison hooch later and I'm ready to go back to the honest life of promising burnouts 7 PM timeslots at the loading dock of Macy's in Culver City. Can't an honest entrepreneur foist his mind-altering chemicals on people without The Man getting all bent over it?!

A Dose of Reality

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Wanna Get High? Take 15 hits of this mp3 I just downloaded, bro

Okay, seriously. Stop racking out that last line on your mom's makeup mirror, turn off the heroin-stove you use for cooking your Carnation Injectable Breakfast,

and don't forget to cancel your job interview with Tugjobs R' Us to finance those two other habits. You don't need any of that shit any more! Just throw it all into a large bag with the word "Spike" written on it, and leave it next to the Talking Stick in Venice. There's something new, and whatever dickbag decided to name it didn't have an ounce of creativity in his fuckbrained skull -- it's called iDosing.

Wait, is that for reals?! That's gotta be faker than Shiloe's statement that they were "signed" to a record label. Let me check the website again...no, it's still real. It still exists. Rednecks in Oklahoma are still talking about iDosing after school in Tito's Fuck Lounge.

So what is iDosing? It's when the internet gets you high, man! According to an unverified source who enjoys writing bullshit and posting it in the science section of an unreliable's newspaper's website, "A person can iDose by simply finding a dark room, slipping on the headphones and sitting motionless, listening to repetitive, atonal tracks, and the time it takes to achieve any transcendental state is entirely up to the user." Hey waitaminute...that sounds familiar. I think I saw some Buddhist monks iDosing on TV yesterday. Shit! Those fuckers have been dealing the entire time and the DEA are just sitting on their dicks waiting for our kids to get hooked. I don't even want to think about how Grooveshark is passing out free samples to all the kids. Jesus, it's like the goddamned Havana Skag Conference over here!

So what's so bad about meditating iDosing? "An analysis done on the dangers of iDosing has shown that while the practice itself is mostly harmless, there's a chance of it leading to more harmful addictions." Yeah, you could get addicted to breathing. Shit, you breathe a lot and you'll PASS OUT. No lie. I had a real bad breathing habit for the last...shit...46 years of my life!

This just goes to show you that there's evil drugs everywhere, even the internet. ESPECIALLY the internet. Hey, maybe now that we create--err, "discovered" this threat to our kids safety, we can get the government to pass a law saying that we can restrict the internet just to certain people. You know, to keep the goddamned kids from listening to their goddamned mp3 coke. And while we're at it, we make a law that keeps poor people off of it, too. Hey, why not? When you're fear-mongering to keep people distracted from reality, you can't resist slipping some laws in that will take people's rights from them. I know, let's make it so only corporations and rich people can use the internet, because really they're the only people who deserve it. Right?!

Fuck it, I don't care about politics or getting "serviced" behind the Tujunga car wash any more. I'm just gonna put on these headphones and trip out on some idiot's attempt to get rich e-drugs.



I think I'm almost starting to feel like I might be getting pretend high!

Meet Larry

Larry's advice for new bands in Los Angeles:

Teardrops in the Toilet

Well, you shitbrickin' kids, if there is one thing you've learned from the violent back alley musings of a Berkeley Coke Sore its that The Spikester has no short term, no long term, and no not so distant future memory. You see, unlike STD's the narcissistic mind's misdeeds are quickly forgotten...just like last nights S&S. Thats Skag & Skank to you plebeian bible clutchers and it'll set you back a good $50 or a barter'd grab 'n go tugjob where Santa Fe meets Artesia. Which brings me to a town of five known as Jean, NV. You see, if you spend more than 12 hours in Jean, NV you are either the Gas Station hooker, cashier, meth chef, Rush Limbaugh, or all 5. Thats pretty much all I have to say about Jean, NV because I am going to move onto more important things....things that matter....like Hep C, a needle disease that slowly scars your liver and spits you out the entertainment circuit and onto the last act of the Flamingo Casino's second stage. But before I mislead you, this saga is not about Vinnie Favorito, the fifth best roast style comic at the Flamingo. I'll leave it to someone else to tell you about his one-joke guido/blowjob routine that begs hecklers to take a shot at him. Hey, easy pickin's if you're a man holding a giant glass of beer, born with nothing to lose and a firm desire to get kicked out of the side stage of the Stardust's roach-infested, piss-soaked Pensioner's Lounge. No, this post isn't about trying to get Vinnie Favorito to break down crying like a schoolgirl in the middle of his 3 AM set. Actually, I'm going to talk about Las Vegas.



That's Vinnie Favorito, kids--a man recently accepted into the Catholic sainthood as the Patron Saint of Failure and Disgrace. By the way, cut to 0:57 where Vinnie casually admits to drunk driving. You can tell that this man is destined to blow a .83 BAC sometime in the next month, and a different kind of show will begin: they'll slap the cuffs on him and send him on an ass-rapin' field trip to the county lockdown. A reputation as the 34th best roast comic in West Las Vegas won't do much to stop those 15 rednecks in the holding cell from playing whack-a-mole with your testes for kicks.

They cut this before the last part of his act where he runs out of racial groups to make one-shot comments about for cheap laughs. At the end? Nothing but Eskimo and Finnish jokes before the crowd storms the stage and caves his face in with their canes and walkers. Or maybe that was just a bad reaction to his remark referring to Eskimos as "snow mexicans." Hey, racism plays well to a room full of meth farmers who just came in from the dunes to looking for a trunk full of phenobarbital and ten pitchers of Keystone Light.

If you head down any of the major streets of Las Vegas, you'll hear bullhorns blasting Vinnie's challenge "You don't have the guts to come to my show." I see someone learned reverse psychology in their prison GED classes. I don't know, do I have the guts to watch a fat Italian guy stumble through 30 minutes of terrible b-material in front of a room full of indifferent drunks? Do I have the guts to waste minutes of my life when I could be banging a room full of hairy prostitutes? No. Absolutely not.

Here he is wearing a kevlar suit and pretending that he's in some kind of danger from the poisonous snakes he's surrounded himself with. I doubt these things could bite through a thick leather jacket, let alone something heavy enough to stop an Ingram Mac-10 at 50 feet. Not that this will stop Favorito from whining like a little bitch, though...


But this isn't about any of that, this saga is about the good life. How to live like a king...but not the "I'm a just King who shares my bread with the poor". I'm talking about the King who eats children and cornholes your beagle and nubile college age daughters, all the while nodding off through Guns N Roses covers at Oshea's. You see, most douchebags will go for the slots or the shows or the unforgettable case of herpes. But Spikester, why the fuck do you go to Vegas? Well the answer is simple and two-fold - alcohol and midgets.












Working an 18 hour shift wearing a velour Leprechaun hat that smells like Pabst barf and being forced to fight off rowdy drunks who want some impromptu dwarf tossing....Talk about the luck of the Irish!

Anyway...

You see, the prototypical trip to Vegas reads like a book. Granted, it's a relatively short book full of chlamydia and frustrating run-ins with undercover cops when you just want to pick up a tranny hooker at 4 AM outside the Sahara, damnit. The players here are interchangeable:

1. You leave the kids at home and take the wife to the Gold Strike Inn then lose a few bills however, you gain a blowjob.

2. You leave your parents at home and take the girlfriend to the State Line you'll lose a few bills, but you'll gain a blow job and "rear access!!11"

3. Go to the Hard Rock Casino and rent a hooker...yada yada.(Just don't rent any named "Krystal," you're gonna have to trust me on this one.)


I've tried to warn you but you fucks keep on going to Vegas even after I repeatedly tell you about the real treasures of the strip...the ankle biting irish car bomb giving midgets and the Spikester blitzkrieg of the quasi "open casino bars".
So fuck it, my buzz is fading quicker then a chinese hooker sprinting at 3 am to make last call...just don't say I didn't warn you.

You might bring your own drugs. You might bring said drugs in a briefcase, like you read in some book somewhere. You might bring several dozen of those briefcases. Don't forget to pack the briefcase port-a-meth lab. Hey, what the fuck were you gonna pack? Clothes!? Goddamnit, A man with a head full of acid and bad wiring needs no clothes. At least not for the 15 glorious minutes of sprinting nude through the lobby of Circus Circus before being hosed down with mace by security. It was worth it, I tell you. Minds were BLOWN that night.

Anyway, typical Las Vegas Vacation.
Pictorial for those who can't read (i.e. Vinnie Favorito, that blind hooker who tends bar down at Terrible's at the state line).

When Life Gives You AIDS, Make LemonAIDS.

Fresh from the unlocked bathroom behind a high school in Duarte, I've come to smear the truth all over your righteous gobs. Okay, to be fair I don't really know what that means: I've been doing a fair amount of meth off of the hoods of parked tractors down by the feed store for the last 3 days straight, mostly just to keep my mind from getting too uptight.

So pigeons shit all over Kings of Leon at a concert in St. Louis. That's fucking performance art right there. Quote of the day: "We had to bail, pigeons shitting in [bassist] Jared [Followill]'s mouth." Now where do I get some, and how can I train them to follow Shiloe around shitting in their open mouths? BOOM! 5 sentences in and I'm already talking about wild birds' shit hitting Shiloe's collective pie holes. Fuck, that adderall smoothie is finally taking root--shit is about to get real, bitches!

Yeah, life is hard. And at the end if you're lucky you might die. That's why you gotta snort everything that isn't tied down, because usually anything that's tied down is too big to snort. Remember that shit, man, that's some free life advice.

Wait wait...back to pigeons shitting on Kings of Leon for a second: "Jared was hit several times during the first two songs. On the third song, when he was hit in the cheek and some of it landed near his mouth, they couldn't deal any longer." So they let pigeons shit on them for two songs, I guess? Better than their audience got. They let Kings of Leon spray them with their shit-rock for 12 minutes until they cleared the stage, taking the rest of their fans' $75 plus Ticketmaster rape charge back to their velvet-lined tour bus. I don't care what that fuck Jesus Ayala thinks, getting shat upon by feral pigeons is better than a Kings of Leon concert. Fuck you, Ayala! Stay outta Pico or I'll cut you with my boot knife.

Alright, enough vague threats and side notes about nothing. I got off track after that part about getting birds to dive bomb Ken Ramos. It's hard to write this shit, you know? The mind tends to wander to things like, "why didn't that eightball I hid up my ass a week ago ever come back out?" or "did I remember to clean out the fridge today?" Cut to a shot of my fridge:

FUCK! It's so hard to focus when you're high on $8 worth of uppers and a couple of packets of sugar from Denny's that I confused for coke. They kicked me out but the joke's on them--when no one was looking I stole all that food they left on the ground.

Look, you have to know when to let your dreams and hopes die forever and never return. Because you don't want to end up like a hipster from Animal Collective--always wearing ironic wolf sweaters and looking ready to go down on the nearest record executive.

There's no dignity there. Your hipster friends next to you aren't looking too good either, really. So it's settled, and now it needs to be asked, "Who's going to start the hipster Auschwitz?" Someone needs to take down the editorial staff of Vice Magazine, Pitchfork.com, and all the other rags out there that refuse to publish my weekly column of drug recipes/band management abuse/advice (Not that that stops me from mailing it to them every day) and put them to work in a camp in the middle of Tujunga somewhere.

Look here jizzwizards, I can't keep typing my words of wisdom here forever. I've got a full day ahead: I've got death threats a column to mail to Pitchfork in an hour, and karate lessons to give to random kids I meet in the park later today. Those kids aren't going to learn how to take a punch from a junkie unless they learn first hand! You'll just have to resume touching yourself and watching The Hills in your parents basement if you want amusement.