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!
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).
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.
And I quote, “It's easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.”
He might have also said (off the record), "Yeah, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why is it so hard for you to play this shit?! GOD! All you gotta do is tap that thing on the beat and that's it. Is that is too hard for you, fucknuts??"
What a dick.
I can't wait to read that book he wrote about architecture, "Building a Skyscraper is Easy: All You Have to Do is Put Some Steel On Top of Some Wood And Nail 'Em Together, Toolbag. Seriously, Why is That So Hard For You?! Jesus!"
hey, Larry here I'm spike's roommate and spike asked me to make this post while he is away on vacation, actually he's just nodding off behind a Denny's in Fremont. But, regarding Dick fuckin' Cheney...I fucking knew it. I always knew the guy was a piece of shit. Looks like we need to get an EMP bomb now. No professional would settle for less.
Hey some journo fuck tried to interview me for some shitty rag and I ended up making page 6! Check it out:
=================================================== Class Conflict in West LA Foments in Westwood
Local Swine Delay the Inevitable Daily Bum Riots...Pols, Figureheads, Wealthy Nihilists Giddy...Luxury Apartments Surrounded by a Human Moat of Shit and Piss in Westwood...No Rules, No Laws, Get Your Kicks While You Can...Crack, Violence, and Human Life are all Cheap on the Mean Streets of LA's Wealthiest District...The Only Part of Town Where You Can See a Hollywood Premier Being Busted Up By An Army of Hobos...
by Willis Todhunter Ballard
Westwood is a town where the chic and vicious live next to one another with a fragmented dividing line keeping the two from exploding in daily, all-out violence. The commercial district there is a small area consisting of a 3x3 square of city blocks, and needless to say there is not much space for the thousands of human beings who hit the streets every day. The cramped district allows no avoiding the many street people who either live there or are bused in from downtown every day. They ask for nothing: they will not accept money, food, or kind words. Their very existence seems to act like a slap across the face to the local police, who are driven into an orgy of arrests and brutality every morning (when there aren't any bystanders to witness it). For now those in power have corralled the street people into the western blocks, but they slip further and further east every day. I asked around and found their leader--a pale, twitchy man named "Spike"--who told me he was "the king of the streets, man." Based on observations, Spike appears to be about 55 years old and his daily drug intake is equivalent to the entire city of La Brea. In between nodding off and talking to an imaginary person he referred to as "Tommy C", he said that he is a concert promoter who attends 30 concerts a week, "mostly just to steal a wheeze off the booze spigots, man." The man is clearly delusional. He offered to get me an all-access pass to the needle party tonight, but when I asked him where it was all he said was, "Huh?"
They don't make people like Spike anymore...but just to be safe, he ought to be castrated. Castrated? Jesus, is nothing sacred?! No, not in these times. The cops don't ask questions, they just slap the handcuffs on and ask the details later after their baton hands have been warmed up from your savage beating. When I left Spike, he was about to be hauled away, all the while screaming that the police were "All a bunch of fucking animals!" I suspect they're taking him off to the glue factory to get some use out of him after all...
The broken and angry are the new rulers of Westwood, and if they can organize there will be outright riots. There's not enough opposition to stem the tide, and the growing number of homeless due to the sinking economy will provide more than enough soldiers to fight the war for the streets. I say let it come, let them bring down all the organic grocery stores and luxury apartments that try to glaze over the sourness of these times. Of course, if you actually do want to do something about it there are easy ways to help. Better get on their good side now, because that guy on the street corner talking to himself is going to be the King of Westwood in another month or two.
Willis Todhunter Ballard is a freelance journalist in Los Angeles who has also written numerous texts about home-made defense devices and weaponry, most notably his 1971 screed "How to defend yourself, your family, and your home;: A complete guide to self-protection". His whereabouts are currently unknown.
Everybody in? Is everybody in? The ceremony bullshit is about to begin.
Vile pissbags Prince and T-Pain have spoken: Music and the internet are over. Now we're going to have to figure out what the fuck to do with ourselves. Drink Brandy/transmission fluid cocktails from a stolen colostomy bag? Feed Tommy Lasorda to the street people of Westwood? Actually get a fucking JOB and work for a living?!?! Jesus christ, can you actually imagine? The horror, the horror. Spike Anderson, toiling under the goddamned sun, picking those goddamned bananas 26 hours a day. No longer bilking the gullible and gutless out of their trust funds...
NO! Wake the fuck up! What kind of rat bastard psychotic would even write something like that?!?
Yeah, the rest of us still use the internet and listen to music (although not all of us are listening to the soundtrack to Glitter like you probably are, jagoff). Seriously, if the right combination of drugs can make a human being actually say something as shit-brained and ridiculous as "the internet is over," can't we figure out the right level of GHB to pump into our leaders to make them say that the War in Iraq is over? Or maybe that the war in Iraq is now going to be fought by only the members of congress and their families. Also, Rush Limbaugh is going to be used as a condom for the rest of his life.
As for music, well, it probably should be over by now. At least it should be for bands who just want to impress hookers and get rich by selling pop-punk bullshit to advertising executives. Well I say go home kids, the shit rock bailout is over. Spike Anderson's Teabagging Party has come to drape its sweaty sac of truth onto your worthless careers. Get fucked, get out, leave my 230% cut in my mailbox behind the Tastee Freeze.
Does that sound too vicious? Fuck off! But I have more to say, so now you should LISTEN, scum.
Is Google in bed with the CIA? No. Fucking...no. Not more than any other corporation or company, at least. Google saves, at most, the terms you search for on its website. That's not necessarily as important as you might think. Searching for something is different than visiting a web page. You can search for "banana bread recipes" and end up following the search results to something completely different (that's how people get away with looking at porn sites at work). On the other hand, ISPs keep all of the REALLY damning information on you (i.e. your name, age, location, at least credit card number, etc.). So if the CIA is in league with anyone, it's the ISPs (most of whom are owned by giant multi-national corporations). So the next time you see someone like M.I.A. say something in the press like "Google and Facebook were developed by the CIA, and when you're on there, you have to know that." then you know they don't actually have any fucking clue what they're talking about. If you don't understand something, you can't make a statement IN THE FUCKING PUBLIC PRESS about it.
MIA's reply:
if the corporations own the government(or the other way around) then doesn't that mean the cia or "government" might have access to your private information....for a price??
That said, maybe I'm wrong and maybe its time we take it to the streets...or I could just continue drinking kentucky moonshine and shooting pigeons.
Oh yeah, and Noam Chomsky. You know, the guy who actually checks his facts:
visit Totally Fuzzy
