SONG OF THE DAY: Piece of Your Action

By the time they released Shout at the Devil, Motley Crue had mastered the faux Satanic imagery that made them metal famous, before they flipped the color scheme to be MTV famous on their next record. But nothing they ever did comes close to the raw power of Too Fast For Love. They made the perfect album for wrecking your car into a guardrail on a Wednesday night.

SONG OF THE DAY: The Wicketshit Will Never Die

Noted horrorcore rap original Esham he of the darkest lost zones of Detroit shall suggest to us that wicketshit will never die, and there is strength to be taken from surviving the horrible darkness that is late capitalism and cultural collapse of western civilization due to the avarice and greed of those who have always been positioned at the top of the pyramid scam, at some point (I hope) one has to embrace the faith that this is not an end nor an ultimatum nor the final call of apocalyptic purgatory, and that perhaps a bettershit shall be born from the ashes of this failed experiment in exploitation, unsustainable personal profit over collective good, and general dehumanization of each other. But while still immersed in this slow boil of decline (which appears to be boiling more and more each passing week, but then again we all know how watched pots boil and we are certainly watching for bubbles more readily than ever), there is no doubt great solace in dark wicketshit arts, which take the feelings of total insecurity, lack of safety, deep paranoia from rabid police state militarization, distrust of random passersby as “is this man friend or foe? will he give me daps or stabs?”, and so on and so forth, and these horrible feelings of failure can be exorcised by embracing the wicketshit in our arts, so that we don’t have to do so in real life. It helps the machetes remain unbloodied for another day.

S4T4N 4LW4YS C4LLS C0LL3CT...

satan always calls collect,

always from pay phone outside

corner store, two piece lake trout

R3G4RDL3SS 0F P0L1T1CS...

regardless of politics,

leaders come from asshole class -

self-important to a fault

PR3T3ND C0VNTRY 1M4G3S...

pretend country images

more common than the real thing

in late capitalism

dollar store satanism

sigils litter the compound's

scrabbled-together landscape

each orange railroad spike buried

with 14-line intention

iambic pentagrammar

TOP TEN RESPECT THE BOOKERMAN INDECISION 2016

all news websites are
digital era apter
mags, all quotes made-up#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/1z5htLZ9Df

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

apter mag letters
no different than comments
on news articles#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/sWXtohedDj

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

web full of robots
manufacturing opinions
on who's heel, who's face#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/kg0RqzIWas

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

Top 10 Most Hated
funded by Soros, funded
by DOD grants#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/uNkMkORORS

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

Pulitzers, Nobels,
Presidents, Senators - all
chose behind closed doors#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/atEApdCD2M

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

booking the future
to keep attendance as high
as profitable#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/SEnsudgP7z

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

who will main event
presidentialmania
two thousand 16?#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/ETxQ1Hm4Dg

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

when will Bernie job?
will Cruz go full lawyer heel?
who will get the belt?#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/odVc6YCxkQ

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

whatcha gonna do
when Hillarymania
runs wild over you?#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/mwmH8bGOOw

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

cheer for who you want
results still predetermined
we should all riot#haiku#rojonekku#NothingIsReal pic.twitter.com/ODvU9dDjOX

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) April 26, 2016

#1: all news websites are/digital era apter/mags, all quotes made-up

#2: apter mag letters/no different than comments/on news articles

#3: web full of robots/manufacturing opinions/on who's heel, who's face

#4: Top 10 Most Hated/funded by Soros, funded/by DOD grants

#5: Pulitzers, Nobels,/Presidents, Senators - all/chose behind closed doors

#6: booking the future/to keep attendance as high/as profitable

#7: who will main event/presidentialmania/two thousand 16?

#8: when will Bernie job?/will Cruz go full lawyer heel?/who will get the belt?

#9: whatcha gonna do/when Hillarymania/runs wild over you?

#10: cheer for who you want/results still predetermined/we should all riot

MNZ: The Atlantic Monthly March 2011

So this issue had a big long article regarding computer artificial intelligence and some dumbass thing where people try to trick computers or some bullshit. That article was entirely too long, and meandered in unnecessary directions. What was most interesting to me was the little editorial preliminary write-up about Google and the artificial intelligence programmed into it to try and figure out what you are trying to get to before you tell it. This is something that bothers me immensely, because a lot of times, I'm just dicking around online, trying to find out about something I know nothing about. I do not want my search results polluted or poisoned by my previous searches or comparing my online habits with other people's online habits or anything really. I just want straight up results, like if I was looking in a goddamned wall full of notecards at a library in 1984, digging through the Dewey decimal system. Do not predict what I want.
My annoyance with this has caused me to have multiple gmail accounts to log in and out of to try and get different results. The thing is, your IP is noted, so I've noticed (yes, I've paid attention) that I get the same search results with different accounts at home, yet will get different results at work. What this means is we are digitally tagged, so that regardless of whether you are trying to get fresh results or not, they know who you are and where you are and target their responses according to what they think is most wanted by you. More importantly, their advertising is targeted accordingly as well, which increases the likelihood you click one of the links, which increases the value of them selling those fucking sidebar links. Which also brings to mind the accusations that Google actually moves sites up and down its search results listings according to advertising purchases, or just straight up personal decision. Can't remember where I read it (ha, might've even been this magazine I'm writing about for all I know), but there was some dude who whose website was disappeared from Google, completely. Like you couldn't even type in his address and company name and have it show up. Gone. How much stuff is like that?
Tons I bet. So no matter how much you turn off the autosearch smartbot program, or log out to try and have fresh results, Google has you pegged, tagged, and charted, demographically. Even more bothersome, considering all the dumb shit I'm interested in, is my children will use the same internet zone I use. This means they are going to be fucked, because when they look up historical information, Alex Jones or William Cooper is gonna come up. And I'm not opposed to that, but I'd like them to find their ultra-awareness on their own.
There is so much about this interweb age that is neat and fun, but there's so much that's weird as fuck. We voluntarily put information about ourselves into the public sector, and allow computer programs we've never met in the form of applications have access to all sorts of personal data, often times financial, and don't bat an eye. We think we are more connected than ever, when we have actually disconnected ourselves more and more, focused on the constant switchover from tiny smartphone screens to home desktop screens to slimline laptop screens to tablet and ipads and whatever the fuck else. They probably were about to drop some cornea implant screens before the tsunami devastated Japan.
And ultimately though, this is why I still subscribe to magazines, and buy them at the dwindling array of book stores left, and shuffle through the discarded magazine free bin at my local library. Magazines just have what they have, and I can read it. There's more information a lot of times, deeper stories, and prettier pictures a lot of time. Sure, there's not porn, and yeah, the ads are still targeted to certain demographics. But it allows me more freedom, of mind and of what I mentally ingest.

(7s) LPs I Be Lusting After #6 - Pentagram by Pentagram

Pentagram is a weird ass 1970s/1980s metal band from northern Virginia led by some wack ass dude who still looks like it's 1979 to this day, and over time they have become a cult figure within the metal community, for being an obscure American Black Sabbath on drugs. Their first album was re-released under the title Relentless, but I do not want any re-released bullshit. I want the original flavors, in all it's unmastered gloriousness.
First time I heard this was after going to North Carolina to see a bonafide authentic Mexican lucha libre show, where they did the Mexican national anthem and all the illegal immigrants in attendance did that weird Battlestar Galactica arm across their body thing that made me realize we are doomed in our fight against the Mexicans, and I ended up crashing at my boy Boomer's house. He was playing the first Pentagram LP, the first time I had been turned onto them.
They are awesome as fuck. If you don't know that, that's fine. I understand. This is the internet, which is for entertainment not learning, so you can learn about them whenever you feel the time. Personally, it is fucking hot in this house and I am not going to put the air conditioners in until my wife absolutely makes me because the freon weakens your will, and when combined with the cellular phone waves in the air and the fluoride in our toothpaste, it makes me die. So I am going outside to pump some Pentagram through the dumpster 1970s speaker sitting on a milk crate with a tarp over top in my back yard, coming from the camper, and jam the fuck out. “Some say I’m an advocate of lucifer... some say I’m a child of god.” No fucking doubt, bro, no fucking doubt.

(7s) LPs I Be Lusting After #1 - Straight To Hell by Hank Williams III

Pandora the music website is a great idea, but a problem with it is it's all musically scientific and lacks a respect for the spirit. In my personal life, I feel there is no form of music that needs to be multiplied that Hank Williams III's Straight To Hell LP, especially the strange cokehead country whiteboy meets codeine-drinking screwed and chopped styles of the second CD. It is, to borrow a played out phrase, the shit. I have often looked for other music like this, but it all falls short or goes in a different direction. Wayne Hancock, while cool I guess, is too far on the “like Hank Williams Sr.” tip for my tastes; it makes me think of college city girls with tattoos who are on the roller derby team and have a vintage kitchen table with sparkly top. Those Poor Bastards, who originally wrote “Pills I Took”, are like a happy dirge you play for your own one-man suicide party. Stuff that calls itself “outlaw country” is usually outlaw filtered through the profitability factor of the Nashville sound system, so that a guy like Jamey Johnson or Chris Knight, as pure of heart as they may be, still sound like they might rip off their honest eyes like that old mini-series V and are really just fucking lizards making money for record companies in subversive ways. And stuff that calls itself “alternative country” is usually, from my experience, the idea of honest country music filtered through a series of cul-de-sacs. It’s not necessarily a dishonest form of music; it just don’t know.
I am from a shithole place where hopelessness reigns supreme. I am a chronic fuck-up with bad tattoos, stupid scars, and lifeline on my palm that’s got a few bridges out that I’m gonna have to pull some General Lee jumps to make it to 60, much less 70. Shit man, let me just give you a straight real example... I took my riding mower to get fixed last year at the shop that my dad worked at for nearly 30 years, because I figured I could trust them. My drive belt kept slipping from where I hit a loose piece of tether cable in the field where I used to stake my goats up, and I just bent the pulleys and all back into close enough shape, which worked for a year or two, but it needed fixing. So I took it to that shop, hoping for the hook-up, and the crooked-walking guy who worked with my drunken dad for a decade said he’d hook it up. I had money in the bank to get it done. Except that guy, Lee, was the one who had to do it to make it happen right, and he had a tendency to not show up to work for weeks on end. So it took them a few months to fix my goddamned riding mower, and by that time my own chronic under-employment had left me broke, so I couldn’t pay the $175 to get it back. So I fixed my push mower on my own and power walked my way through 2.5 acres four times last year, in random patches that made my yard look like it was way into De La Soul’s first album. One day, the small engine shop lady called me and I told her I didn’t have no money, could they hold it for me, and she said yeah, which I knew meant they’d charge me for holding it. Fast forward to nowadays. Now understand this was a family business that I’m part of the family of, and it’s a family related name (my grandmother’s maiden name actually) that’s on the business sign outside, yet nobody there is connected to that. Except one cousin, who is back home cleaning up from heroin and opiate painkillers and too much realness at too quick a pace. But he’s solid earth. I call him up to get my mower back and he says he’ll make it happen, but come tomorrow. So I do. And my great uncle is there, who used to own the store, and was the nemesis to my dad’s drunken employment for those decades in the back room of the store, where the repair work was done, where I used to scoot around on this weird sliding seat thing all the time when I was as young as I can remember. I talk to great uncle for a while, who’s over 80 now, and still complains about every goddamned thing on earth like he always did. (This guy actually used to give me old copies of Popular Mechanics, because he wanted me to be an engineer because I was smart. Not laughing, just saying, that’s the history.) Nine months sober from heroin cousin hooked me up on the bill, gave me a couple files to sharpen my chainsaw chain, and we loaded it up on the back of my bruised and battered truck, and then leaned along the bed rails to bullshit away an hour. Another dude I grew up with who works there was chilling, and we should’ve went to get a beer or four, but my truck had an expired inspection sticker, so passing cops were sci-fi flick floating eyeballs waiting to report back to the overlords and ruin my life. And he has offspring and offspring partners to answer at as well. So we just got in our assorted vehicles that aren’t like the ones we wrecked or the ones we used to have last summer, that we got given to us or pieced together to keep running or were allowed to borrow for the time being, and we took our turns down the road in different directions. But we all came from that same place.
That’s why that Hank the Third shit, most especially the Straight To Hell, speaks so goddamned loudly at me. There hasn’t been music from that same place in forever. And there’s a lot of motherfuckers like us out here.

100 VINYLZ: #76 - Abigail LP by King Diamond

(1987, Roadrunner Records)
I first had this on tape in high school, and everybody knows the King was the best because he can do death metal groans but could also sing opera if he wanted. He also could've been the European Pele but he gave up pro soccer when he sold his soul to the devil at his kitchen table one night. All King Diamond before 1990 is the greatest shit ever, the culmination of his early incubation in Mercyful Fate to where he had the Satanic theme record thing down pat. Abigail is still my favorite, and I am proud that one year in my wasting money on ebay periods, I acquired this on the vinyl. If I can't find my Death Angel LP, I will blast this through the speaker in the back yard on chicken slaughter day. They're these big ass heavy duty 1977 solid wood speakers I got from under the carport at the dump aka The Too Good To Throw Away section. I keep them in the camper, pull them out for parties, because they make big noise, but the other week I set one on a milk crate behind the shed, and my riding mower was in the shop back home where my dad worked for 30 years of his life, so the tarp that covered the riding mower was on the ground. Tarp over top speaker on milk crate, loose brick on top of tarp to hold it in place, and BAMMM! permanent back yard sound system that I didn't have to haul in and out all the time. Now, I just plug in the camper, hook my little 2 gig gaypod shufflenator into the jack by the door, and play the musics. I'm on a Los Tigres Del Norte kick lately.