underneath angle mushroom

color pink as yoni flesh -

advanced earth technologies

TOP TEN STONES CAST AT MOLOCH THE OWL GOD'S RELENTLESS ARMOR

#1: naked yoni hair/triggered by strong clitoris/AR-15 blast
#2: hamstring scars plus ass/tattoos that wiggle with thrust/like heat distortion
#3: thicker the berry/the deeper the juices go/ - you know what I mean?
#4: alpha male madness/will overruled - omega/womb won’t be denied
#5: what the fuck I say?/peacock brain flaunting despite/shiva’s stomping feet
#6: the world’s heart is fire/lava-blood flows, congeals as/stone once hits space
#7: motherfuckin’ fire/sterilizes purifies/against “pure” blood lies
#8: bitches with riches/gentrify destiny by/manifesting will
#9: will you or won’t you?/you a cog or you a frog?/make big splash go boom
#10: erection blossoms/spring time earth fire flows go bloom/go boom be naked

TOP TEN SIGNS THE HOOPOE WAS RIGHT

#1: arabesque fractals/never splinter short stories/spiraling new words
#2: protons-electrons/spin in spiral complement/ - matter’s 69
#3: holistic scribbles/materia medica/self-poetica
#4: I direct message/t’ang era hermits, persian/wandering mystics
#5: motherfuckers stuck/on now’s constant endless now/lose third dimension
#6: stuck on Why-axis/trapped in Ex-axis, can’t cee/W-axis
#7: nonsense gibberish/escapes babylon’s fences/fucked fertile crescents
#8: “fertile crescent” is/metaphor for space yoni/ - where buildings erect
#9: cunning folk linquist/carving heart scribbles into/blue ridge skyline cracks
#10: more sheltered outside/than inside where genetic/faults shine nakedly

Ultimate 100: 65 thru 61

#65: SAM STOUT vs. SPENCER FISHER - I do not care and am sewing patches onto my patch jacket so my reviews will be shorter and stupider, which is probably better anyways. Sam Stout is not a beer, contrary to his name, and Spencer Fisher is a leprechaun looking motherfucker, and has bad tribal armband tattoos so he is probably better, of course. The Irish got a bloody eye, but kinda dominated at least from what I heard while not paying attention. The other dude is a kickboxer and the Joe Rogan stupid color commentator guy was like, "Oh you don't become a world champion kickboxer by being a pussy." I hate using that term "pussy" for weakness. The vagina is a strong motherfucker, and alpha dudes need to get over this aversion to acknowledging the power of the vagina. I am alpha as hell and will love on a vagina all day long, and never call it derogatory slang terms, ever, even if I was writing gangsta rap songs, because a true gangsta fucks up conventional thinking with his gangsta ways, not perpetuates tired stereotypes. The little Irish leprechaun dude won, and he looks old in the eyes, like he has seen things - strange nasty things that can't be unseen.
#64: CHUCK LIDDELL vs. RENATO SOBRAL - I would doubt the little fake Travis Bickle ultimate fighter Dana White pal numero uno Chuck Liddell aka the stupid fucking Iceman is going to lose in this thing at all. This is starting to seem like one of those WWE DVD sets where they push the internal corporate agenda instead of give you an actual compendium of the best shit. Of course if you want an actual compendium of the best shit, that involves going inside the interwebs and having a group of nerds analyze, rank, and dissect all the possible fights, and your getting into real hollow-point-bullet-into-your-own-brain territory once you go there.
Oh, I always read dudes talking about Babalu and I never knew who the fuck he is but apparently he is the Brazilian guy partially covered in stupid tattoos who is fighting Mr. Face of the UFC Chuck Liddell.
Liddell is basically punching the fuck out of him, but the Babalu dude rolls around to stop from getting knocked out, but it just doesn't really end because the one dude is on his back getting punched and if it was a bar fight it would've already been stopped. Travis Bickle wins.
#63: GEORGES ST. PIERRE vs. MATT HUGHES - Oh lord, not again. Didn't I see this fight already? It's hard to like either of these dudes. This is the type of IMMENSE SHOWDOWN that you hope Al Qaeda wins. Five 5-minute rounds is not promising, because it might go forever, but luckily Matt Hughes beats St. Pierre with a submission out of nowhere at the end of the first round. Thank god, although I still would've liked to see Al Qaeda win, being they were in Atlantic City when they did this fighting thing on the old paying per watches screens.
#62: TYSON GRIFFIN vs. CLAY GUIDA - Man, if you pause these fights on the opening pics of the two fighters, like I do to type their names, it straight up looks like a gay porn is about to bust out with Tyson Griffin and Clay Guida's faces. And MMA people say wrestling was gay. Although as the fighting is happening, I don't mind Clay Guida so much, because he looks like he would listen to some Kreator. Tyson Griffin however, no, that dude is not cool. I still have never figured out Griffin's back tattoo. LIke it's a retarded dragon eagle or something. And why the fuck does Joe Rogan know and care so much about ultimate fighting?
The Guida dude seemed like he was pretty great every time I looked up, because he'd be doing back spinfists or weird rolls off the Tyson dude's back or whatever, but obviously I don't understand MMA because the judges' had a split decision in favor of the Tyson dude. Sucks.
#61: B.J. PENN vs. JOE STEVENSON - Oh man, another B.J. Penn fight! I'm not going to pay attention at all! But I will let it play so I can send this shit back to Netflix and get the second disc of the second season of East Bound and Down!
The Joe Stevenson dude does this weird "AISH! AISH! AISH!" Monica Seles yell when he throws punches, which I'm sure some old ass dude who does maintenance in his apartment building taught him. Stevenson just got an elbow in his forehead and he is bleeding grossly, like Puerto Rican wrestling blood, like Mexican murder magazine blood. "Well, let's see what they can do to close it up," and the old Grady from Sanford & Son cut man is on it, earning them dollars with his voodoo magic. But they get into a second round, and then the Joe dude is punching like a boxer with his "AISH! AISH! AISH!" yell but all bloody and stupid looking.
So bloody but yet so boring. I guess this is considered a great fight because one dude bled a whole bunch. I would actually be concerned about this dude's blood loss, but then he gets caught in a choke, and he taps out and for a brief second while the camera is overhead and Penn is on the bottom reaching around with the Joe dude on top of him, bloody as fuck, grimacing from a choke, quitting, it made me realize just how disgusting this shit is. Not because of the blood, because I'm not like that, but it's just misguided alpha male energy, directed into a pseudo-sport that really is Romanesque. But hey, we are in the decline of the American Empire so it makes sense, doesn't it? Enjoy your handbaskets bros, I'm moving to China now while the getting is still good for English-speaking middle management types.

c a r z o

no more nice contoured trimwork;
it's all fiberglass quarter
panels and shaved vaginas

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - July '10 #10: "Easy Wind" by The Grateful Dead

You know what I've said like a million times to be contrarian? How awesome the Grateful Dead would've been if it had been Pigpen who lives and Jerry who died, because then it would be a shitty drunkard blues band. But you know the truth? Either way was fine. Chicks with no underclothes and their breasts hanging out who liked to do drugs and buy you a Newcastle because it was one for $3 or two for $5 so they were saving money and just general overall fuck it vibe. Hippie chicks are Raven kryptonite. I cannot help it. The colorful skirts and unshaved yonis and turquoise jewelry and oh man when they have dreadlocks too? Raven Kryptonite.
This is still, by about a thousand miles, my favorite ever The Grateful Dead studio song ever. I have listened to a billion times in my life. I have sang it walking railroad tracks drinking wine. I have let it twang in my vehicle and cause me to pull over and buy two double deuces and go sit by the river. It is that type of song, brah.
STEAL "Easy Wind"
NEXT UP: The greatest R&B madman that the state of Virginia has ever produced!

Sierra Nevada Glissade Golden Bock

AFFORDABILITY: The Glissade was on mad sale, and my wife was a full-on Grateful Dead parking lot hippie for a few years, so Sierra Nevada in abundance is like the retro key to good times, where we will play cards in the kitchen and end up somewhere in the back yard before the night's out. I do not mind the taste of this here hippie girl beer, but I do not mind the taste of most beer. Sierra Nevada has never been a brand I tend to support, with money or kind words. But springtime is a time where women wear tank tops and flowery skirts, and it rekindles my inner hippie girl fetish, and the blood flows in and out of my penis in strange patterns, and my heart beams with positivity, and my mind is constantly like, "Yo Raven, fuck work, go sit out in the sunshine with some beer and think about who you're gonna play horseshoes with this weekend." The on sale Glissade is a part of this complete balanced afternoon breakfast I daydream about. 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: You see, if I had done did this blurbage two weeks ago, I would've been all over the Glissade's ability to cause enjoyable feelings in my brainstem. But I've moved on, and now my wife drinks the Glissade, so it's her beer when we get it, and mine ends up being the things that float to the back of the fridge, behind the kimchi crock and sauerkraut quart jars, so this makes me resentful of the Glissade. Thus I don't think of it as destroyable so much as necessary to be destroyed. My one time friend has become my enemy. Now I shall train. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: It is your normal style stupid fucking Sierra Nevada label, just different. 0 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Sierra Nevada, and I hate to be so damned judgemental, but is probably owned by the type of people that make me think “fucking white people” in a derogatory way. And even if they’re not, they are dranken by that type of person, just on the starting trajectory of their upwardly mobile life. I guess eventually rich people stop drinking beer and drink wine instead, because there’s only so hoity-toity you can be about beer, and you can’t properly display your pretentiousness on full. But my wife likes it, in fact I just brought home a fresh 12-pack box of the Glissade yesterday for her, and as much as I’d like to be a hater, I can only hate so much if she’s into it, kind of like some of her friends. So we’ll say 3 out of 5. But I’m fucking sick of having pot luck cookouts and fucking Sierra Nevada Glissade Golden Bock bringing a goddamned couscous lentil salad with organic spinaches from Kazakstan originally that only they grow around here. Or bring a dozen eggs from their chickens to the pot luck. Bitch please, we all got chickens nowadays.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Mixed feelings. I liked it but then didn’t like it, but the wife loves it, but the girlfriend hates it, but the boyfriend loves it. Plus it is Sierra Nevada so I feel like a tool when I buy it. 2 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 2 STARS!

(7s) LPs I Be Lusting After #7 - Dilate by Ani Difranco

Can't just pick LPs for myself, though I'd honestly love to own this on wax, but it would make my wife and at least the oldest kid stoked too. I listen to far more Ani Difranco than you'd probably expect from a 230 pound alcohol-fueled overeducated piece of white trash from southside Virginia, but I come by it honest. The first era of exposure to Ani Difranco music was when I was first dating my wife a long time back in Richmond, when we were both pretty different people. I was a lost ass dude crashing on couches, or in closets, or on linoleum floors, or wherever really, finishing up my last semester of college, and getting fucked up on the regular. I dug my wife, and she dug me, but I was in the type of place where no matter how much I dug somebody, a couple percocets and a 12-pack of PBR would sidetrack me to like another city or some shit. I was cheating on her, and cheating on the girl I was cheating on her with, and cheating everything I could, straight up con man for the only time I've been that in my life, at least that proudly. I guess I've always been a con man because most folks tend to think a lot higher of me than I know myself to be. But at that point, I was wide open, and you could've just replayed the hook to "Self Destruction" by KRS One and friends real faintly in the background all the time, because it would've made sense. I wouldn't have heard it though.
Anyways, a date for me and my wife back then usually entailed getting an 18-pack of Budweiser in cans and pointing one of our vehicles out of that fucking cesspool of Richmond, usually either east on Route 5 or head down 60 into Goochland and into Cumberland County, where my dad grew up. We'd find side roads to get off on, looking for logging trails to just kick it and drink beer and chill out without the glare of the neon city lights tinging our soul with a thick electronic BZZZZZZZZZZ all the goddamned time. Probably that's why we ended up together years after even my cheating ways, because it was in those momentary escapes we could see what was really underneath all the grit and grime of being young and lost in a goddamned shithole of a city. Well, there would be times where these outskirt excursions would come after me fucking things up in one way or another, being taken care of like a baby after going black after too much of this or that, or disappearing for a few days, and our night time country date would be thick with tension, so I'd pound the 18-pack with a super-majority to overcompensate, causing me to pass in and out on the ride back to the BZZZZZZZZZZ. These times, the wife, who was just a chick I kinda loved but couldn't stay true to, she'd be pumping the Ani Difranco, singing in her way that she sings that I steal hear all the time and can hear in our kids when they let it loose, and the songs made perfect sense. I was a complete piece of shit, and I knew it, but you don't want to admit it. If I admitted it outright, she might've stopped enabling me like she did. And as I passed in and out, I'd look over and see her face in the green glow of her Jeep Cherokee's stereo lights, singing loud, beautiful, driving through the country, and it was some real shit to see, especially when in the midst of a bunch of constant fake ass shucking, jiving, conning, conniving, drinking, driving, and barely aliving. I'm thankful that I didn't tear it all asunder so badly that we didn't end up together, out here in the country now for good, not just on a drunken trip for a few hours, and we've got the kids and chickens and pigs and junk cars and buildings and artwork and dreams and life we used to talk about wanting to have. Richmond was a dark ass place, and laughed at all that talk back then. Well fuck you Richmond, and your untouchable face.

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - April '10 #11: "Ladies Night (live)" by Helder O Rei Do Kuduro

Let me just say up front that I can’t recommend the After the End of the World blog over in the link list on the sidebar enough. That dude has turned me onto a lot of music I never would’ve even given a chance otherwise, including this song, which though I have no aural proof to know so, makes me assume that kuduro music is the greatest shit to have sex with strange women to in seedy hotels where the owner speaks bad Portuguese.
Kuduro music is a type of dance music that blew the fuck up in Angola, which I didn’t know shit about. In fact, here is your short C.I.A. World Book-style Bio on Angola by Raven Mack’s brain: It is somewhere in Africa, not the totally wonderful western part nor the fucked up central part but kind of up towards the northeast part, just kinda centered, like maybe near that cluster of The Sudan and Kenya, just not so Muslim. It is one of the last communist countries on earth, and it has the most awesome fucking flag on earth as well, a gangsta as fuck red and black deal with a hammer and sickle except instead of sickle it’s a half of a cogwheel, and instead of a hammer it’s a machete. They also hosted the African Cup of Nations soccer tournament this past year, where the Togo team got shot the fuck up by Angolan rebels, which means there are people rebelling against the Angolan communist government, probably brainwashed by Radio Free Africa or some shit against their own traditions and into Wal-Mart Supercenters, not realizing Wal-Mart has old people in blue vests with a smiley face flag, not awesome machetes and cogwheels and all. That’s Angola.
But apparently, it was also a Portuguese colony, which means kuduro music has jumped the Atlantic over to Brazil (another former Portuguese colony) and holds some dance club sway in Portugal itself. It’s really interesting, all this time later, how the colonial rulers still benefit from the cultural tomfoolery of their former subjugates.
Okay, this song... Helder O Rei Do Kuduro, which means Helder the King of Kuduro. After listening to this song, I have no doubt about it. It’s crazy yell singing slow down then amp it up energy that sounds perfect to do amphetamine hallucinogens in a dingy third world country club to, who gives a fuck if you might get robbed on the way home but maybe you’ll just party all night because it’s safer in the daylight than at night anyways but then again you’re never truly safe so fuck it, let’s go rub up on that light brown woman with the beautifully big ass over there and see if she wants to get drunk with me and make abortions. I cannot begin to hype you the fuck up on this song enough.
I think I’ve said this about thirty-nine times on this blog, but it really bums me out that the so-called World Music scene is so stiflingly and stoned down to that boring fucking Putamayo style of homogenized foreigner music that’s perfect for selling organic vegetables to at Whole Foods, but not really the vibe or speed of the real rest of the World, at least not the parts that still have some of their soul left intact. This sounds like music you play on your djembe and then smash it into bits after you’re done and fuck the first animal that crosses your path afterwards, not get all soulful with your drum like it’s a goddamned bible or some shit.
So yeah, this song is the shit, bros.
STEAL "Ladies Night (live)"
NEXT UP: Music to drive drunk by!

Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ale

AFFORDABILITY: Sierra Nevada is always affordable when you’re a suck-ass white person. (Actually, I’ve never seen a black person drink Sierra Nevada, not even one of those Dave Matttthews Band fan black people.) I am, about half the time, a suck-ass white person. But when you are half-assed, high-end shit seems all the way fuck-this-bullshit. 1 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: Sierra Nevada of any flavor is a beer that goes into my body with such an unmistakeably strange taste - very hoppy to get all beer nerd dorkrod on you - that I am unsure if I am getting super destroyed by its contents because all I can think of is my mouth feels like I washed it out with traces of dirt, like eating shrooms, but to a lesser extent. Perhaps this is why hippie types embrace Sierra Nevada so enthusiastically. Personally, I would prefer to just eat some shrooms, and maybe pack four or five tall cans of Schlitz or PBR and a single-serving bottle of Campbell’s tomato juice. When you open each tall can, you take a heavy swig and fill the missing part with tomato juice, and then sip it down at your leisure. If you’re wearing a regular pair of solidly made cargo pants (none of that Old Navy bullshit, which doesn’t hold together on a real man), you can pack three extra tall cans and the tomato juice, one in each pocket, and wander through the woods feeling the psilocybin high twerk through your system. Sierra Nevada is just clunky and dirty tasting, more apt for the posing and posturing of a parking lot scene outside of some doodleriffic concert event than getting your for-real soul searching internal combustion high on. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Sierra Nevada labels are always similarly uninspiring. This one has some sort of brewing apparatus, plus some strange ledger book bullshit going on subliminally in the background dark green. Plus the yellow gilded Sierra Nevada scroll that rolls in nine different directions. I am not down, though props for such an effort. 2 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Sierra Nevada Brewing Company is its own entity, for sure. I’m sure, judging by its fanbase, it contributes to Darfurian refugees and homeless awareness and vampire rights and all that good stuff. I don’t support political causes of any type though, so when a company becomes big enough to force its own personal style of self-righteousness on others, that bothers me. Just make beer, assholes. 2 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: I am no longer 22 years old trying to have mad sex with a hippie chick on my 2x4 homemade loft resting on milk crates turned sideways to tuck Taoist books inside of like a bookcase, so Sierra Nevada of any flavor is not necessarily my domain. Sierra Nevada of all flavors also conjures up thoughts of housewives holding onto their looser-spirited youth, but confined in a dog kennel of a suburban house, doing some Martha Stewart ass shit to their walls or an old cabinet they got at an antique store, pretending that that’s a creative infusion into their dreary lives. It makes me sad. Why must we deny ourselves happiness? And then why must we buy into something that reminds me of a previous happiness, which is probably a romanticized memory, but nonetheless we buy into it and pretend we are still happy, for that moment we consume the product attached to our psychological clusterfuck? 0 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 1 & 1/5 STARS!

Boddingtons Pub Ale

AFFORDABILITY: The Boddingtons is a tall, yellow, English can in collections of four, with the wooden freshness wicket inside that is some sort of limey technological advance, and I can’t front on that because them dudes been drinking forever, and appreciate a good neighborly drunk ass far more than we do in America. I guess we are too much of a car culture, and the Mothers Against Drunk Drivers went buckwild with governmental lobbying power over convicted rapists who drank 49 beers and ran through two red lights and a stop sign into a front yard full of four-year-olds having a wholesome birthday party. I cannot say the Boddingtons was cheap, but it is limey - the Motherland - so I consider that a heritage tax. Of course, I’m an All-American Southern mutt of a man, but I know from my last name at least, I be having blood alcohol content lines from the land of Andy Capp and fried fish wrapped up in yesterday’s newspaper. 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: I have found the drunkenness factor of most limey beers to depend on my mood. I think it is because I am so thoroughly an American mostly Southern mutt of a man, that my very thick limey roots sometimes are crosswired by other influences. Used to be a few Guinnesses was like my favorite money-to-burn drunk I could want. It doesn't seem to work so much anymore. Honestly, I think this is due to my wife's introduction to fermented foods to our diet, like sauerkraut as well as spicy kimchi, but the spicy kimchi is cabbage-heavy, red cabbage at that, and comes off more German than Korean, at least to me, especially since I eat it with bratwursts. Really, counter-fermented sauerkraut, as opposed to the sterilized pasteurized and uselessized store style sauerkraut, has such a tingly taste from the lactobacilli - so healthy for you - it blends perfectly with a good sausage made from non-genetically mutated pigs. You know the pig industry pretty much has modified them bitches completely so that they all grow to the exact same size so instead of having humans (or Mexicans) slaughter them, they can have a fully automated assembly line where the knives cut at the same height or spot as programmed and since all the pigs have been bred to be clones, it works, saves the company tons of money on having to pay humans to prepare meat foods for other humans, thus maximizing the profit for the parent corporation, which will all one day form like Voltron in the Heavens, and feast on baby blood. The trick will be to take the demented Alzheimer’s ridden brains of our growing elderly populace and make tonics from them using apple cider vinegar and a few sprigs of astralagus root, to mix into the baby’s food (hopefully breast milk if you want to naturally immunize your child against manmade trifles like swine flu or Star magazine), which will put into the baby blood pathogens that haywire the Voltron corporate overlord, eventually destroying him (or her I guess, if women can consider the possibility of female ultimate god, they should be game for female ultimate devil). So when you see old people being crazy, even in your own family, I know it seems uncomfortable at times, and can be a depressingly difficult thing to deal with. But remember, it is all a part in our gradual return to our own humanity, which we have strayed from. Anyways, my clusterfuck genetics were not recognizing their old world influences while drinking upon the Boddingtons Pub Ale, but it’s cool man. It’s cool. 2 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Mostly yellow and black with highlights and embosses of white and red, and an oak barrel with some bumblebees on it in the middle. Very simple, yet tight. A back panel explains their Draughtflow technology, which attempts unsuccessfully to imitate the perfection of it being pulled by hand into a glass (they say it’s imperfect, not me), and it makes me want to be a drunkard. 4 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Man, I love the questionable cover companies of foreign beers in America. This yeller can says, "Brewed by Inbev UK Limited," which sounds tight as fuck and like the Russian mafia along with some questionable Irishmen might be involved, plus "Imported by Import Brands Alliance, St. Louis, MO," which suggest some Anheuser-Douchery most likely, but one can never tell. I did think though that Import Brands Alliance was Harley Race's wrestling promotion where he used dudes from Pro Wrestling Noah in a Missouri strip mall to have fake fights in front of 75 people. Harley Race was great. I was just watching some Best of Starrcade dubVD in the background while doing some other bullshit writing project the other night, and that Ric Flair/Harley Race cage match was awesome. It's embarrassing to admit you liked wrestling in 2009, because even the “good” stuff is homoerotic and degenerate. It’s like porn, none of it is wholesome for regular people to watch anymore, just foster home kids and those of questionable intellect. I have found, in persona recent experience, that porn is a lost cause. With the presence of someone else, watching porn actually gets in the way of sexual activity, because a majority of porn is catering to some sort of twisted and incompetent individual. Sad thing is I think people watch it, including girls, and they think crap like having panties stuffed in their mouths is kosher. Look, in the case a girl is reading this, as a 36-year-old man who loves sex and is alpha male as fuck yet is raising three daughters of his own, you should never put a dude’s dick in your mouth before you kiss him. And if he won’t kiss you afterwards, he’s an asshole. Same thing for him though. If he gives you head, you better kiss him if he comes up for air. Seriously. 4 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Enjoyable, a nice balance of snooty and down-to-earth. Were I a rich man, I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking this, and as I’m a poor man, I would never fill a cooler to head down to the river to soak away the summer humidity with these things, with their new-fangled internal corks and shit. In fact, I’m gonna rip this bitch open and see what a “widget” exactly is... Apparently, a Brit-beer widget, at least as found inside this can of Boddington’s, is some sort of gumball machine toy from a grocery store after aliens openly live among us, and it smells like you drained a can of dollar sardines on a hairy vagina. Still though, I love cans of sardines, hairy vaginas, and alien conspiracies. Plus, widgets are way better inside beer cans than inside internets. 8 out of 5, and I keep smelling my fingers. I’m nasty.
TOTAL RATING: 4 & 2/5 STARS!