Lords to Austin

If you need us, we'll be in Austin this weekend fighting off the Hanta virus we've contracted in Wuppertal/Florida/Vegas with the aid of near lethal champagne, dark meat and Texas football consumption.

We will be gating near the Dish at least 12 hours before kick off, so come on by and get an autographed picture for your grandchildren. Just listen for Billy's Ocean's Suddenly on glorious loop in the corner of the parking lot.

In the meantime, an olldie but goodie:

Aggie Fan

Aggie Fan has little in his life to celebrate, therefore any thimble of success is reason to collectively hold hands in solidarity as men in uniform and then later use that same grip to rejoice inside a ruminant. Chances are he’s got home and away Troy Aikman jerseys in his closet and plans to wear both of them at some point this week.

In every 32 Aggie Fans, there is Aggie Woman. A stocky female, forged from the hardened cowpies that litter the streets of Bryan/College Station, Aggie Woman shops for clothing in BBQ restaurants and has seen more trucker penis than a urinal off I35. Her nipples are like fighter pilot’s thumbs and she menstruates Pabst Blue Ribbon. Aggie Woman is like the white guy in a southeast St. Louis off-shoot of the Crips; you don’t know how she got there, but she’d cut her own mother’s throat out in the name of respect.

Grampa Aggie is a gentleman by nature, until game day when Kentucky Deluxe and deer sausage turn your family butcher/taxidermist into a belligerent maroon hurricane who vomits okra casserole on his dying wife whilst pridefully spouting antique racist slurs, not used publically since sometime around The New Deal. He’d dive head first into his burlap-sack-wearing pregnant daughter-in-law, if he thought it might help his team get a first down. Grampa Aggie attended A&M during the rapiest years of sheep raping, and still can’t be trusted around the family collie.

...should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet one of the aforementioned, simply place any visibly shiny objects on your person in a small pile and cover said pile with a mixture of Mint Copenhagen Long Cut, giblet gravy and nacho cheese, then run as fast as you can downwind.

Hook 'em

in case of stairs use fire

our london hotel had a fire drill for kicks last night circa our third late-for-biology-exam and nude dream. Thank you Arora Hotel Heathrow for the complimentary water bottle and the ear siren we will happily check home with us to the States.

We're on CO33 headed back towards the Loop. Stinky McNevershowers and his pickled tuna breathe next to us say a very long hello to you all.

See you loopside!

New Bossman

New bosses interviewed with Satan and are incentivized based on the volume of smooth homogeneous paste derived from crushed employees' souls. A paste so silky and delicious it could only be the hot fruit of the wicked. For us, this new hellspawn is Kyle.

MMMMMMmmm...you can almost taste the work ethic

Upon introduction Kyle attempts to personify himself by telling us a little about his hobbies, only he fails to mention the budding collections of schoolyard manhole covers and marble busts of Benito Mussolini. He directs his babybutcher narrative into our eyesockets for fifteen minutes but all we can hear is an audioloop chainsaw montage from Evil Dead II at accelerated pitch. This despot clamps his monstrous claw onto our superfluously moisturized hand and we look up pondering whether to begin gnawing at our own wrist in deathrow-jailbreak fashion.

In 1965, Kyle was conceived when an arrant school bus plummeted deep into a west Pennsylvania coal mine. His glare sees your ideas before you have them and thinks they're shit. Kyle preaches corporate motivation strategies from a glossary of pain and does so with a mustache who's ecosystem’s inhabitants have just discovered feudalism. He can't be killed because how do you murder a stone.

Alarming just standing still, Kyle tends to suddenly excite over the paperclippiest of events. His testosterone level fires from newborn to werewolf when he meets a contracted draftsman and we envision their furious handshake leading to a cartilage-popping, arm-from-shoulder amputation, ending with Kyle forcibly sodomizing his poor insurance-less employee with the bloody stump.

Groomed at a jungle school for office politics, Kyle takes the position that if you’re not the alpha gorilla you’re relegated to heaving fistfuls of ejaculate on passing zoo visitors. We watch, paralysed in awe, as he surgically picks off tenured members of staff with the accuracy of a seasoned Green Barrette on a twelve day Bolivian forest-coke binge. Making a 52 year old father of four cry himself incoherent mongoloid on a conference call breaks our reason into dust.

He has arranged an off-site meeting with us and 3 gargoyles in our organization, calling it a white paper session. We assume its some type of occulty-Reich initiation where we dip our hands in hot wax then broken glass and endfight Susan from HR. Our expected pain threshold for this ritual lies somewhere between a Muppets on Ice interpretative tribute to the band Nickelback and being forced to ensconce a lit stove with a leaky bucket of muriatic acid in our lap.

However poorly it goes next week, it could never be as bad as what fates young Billy Joel.

We do miss the talent, but most of all we miss the hair.

Growing Pains

As I turn another year older on this festive Dia de los Muertos, I’d like to take a moment to reminisce on my childhood and recall some of things that used to fill the days of my adolescence not so long ago. Although conceived in the seventies and born into disco, it was the 80s that shaped my inner core making me who I am today.

To give you a glimpse into my supple soul, I give you the ingredients that flow through my body and make up the better part of who I am today. We start with a cup of Tennessee and add a barrel of Texas. After bringing this mixture to a slow boil you add the following to create what we know as Edward Wrath the Only:

My first album – received on my 8th birthday.
Everybody wants to rule the world - Especially me with my kick-ass jambox.

I had ‘em. You did too. We were the S-H-I-T. At least on our backyard basketball court of dreams…

This stuff was actually banned in several south-east Asian communist countries.

It's the stuff dreams are made of.

War is peace. What is the equivalent today? Pok-e-mon? WTF? Team America, Fuck yeah!

I actually had these confiscated by my 2nd grade teacher. And on to baseball cards it was. The ‘rents would rather have me worship a bunch of alcoholic, tobacco-chewing spitters than a few obnoxiously-grotesque cartoons. Go figure.

A duck that has so much money he can swim in it. Does it get any better than this?

I pity the fool who didn’t eat this cereal.

I still don’t understand why Obama never involved these three in his campaign to cross racial barriers.

I may be a little stale these days. My body makes a few more creaks and groans than usual, but put me in the microwave, warm me up and I typically thaw out pretty well. And remember, life will always taste just as yummy, so long as you never forget your (ginger) roots - especially the ones with FDA-approved perservatives from the best decade man has ever known.

Cheers,
E.Wrath
Associate Junior Member of AARP and Product of the 80s