Confederate Mack Issue 52 Hype!

Got this issue back a few weeks back, just never gave a fuck about a stupid-assed blog for a minute. But here's the rundown on this issue - a pretty funny old school style zine. I think there's another hot on the heels of this one - the end-of-summer high productivity mode out in the camper. You can get this shit, sometimes, for sending wacky awesome shit to my PO Box 569, Scottsville, VA 24590. And some folks I need to mail shit to for a while now, but seriously, fuck a post office and their tiny little windows of operation in a rural-ass town. Here's what's in this stupid issue #52 though fool...
CONFEDERATE MACK ISSUE 52 INTRO SPIEL - Self-explanatory, where I pretend you care what I'm thinking.
METALHEADS WHO SMOKE MAD WEED - In defense of stoner metalheads, who seem to be losing the battle for the soul of metal music to ironic metalheads. Shop class metalheads will always and forever make more sense to me than art school metalheads. Most of this stemmed from me getting baked at a Slayer/Lamb of God show in Cleveland.
SOMETHING THAT MADE ME SAD - In memory of blunt tobacco, gone to waste.
NOW I'M IN THE LIMELIGHT BECAUSE I RHYME TIGHT - Complaining about faggot emo-indy rappers wearing like 19 t-shirts at a time.
LOUNGE LIKE YOU MEAN IT - On some ancient shit, by robot nerd chronology.
WASHINGTON REDSKINS 2006 - Ah, another year full of sad diatribes and wishes for helicopters crashes into the Potomac.
MEL GIBSON - WHORE OF ZION - How Mel Gibson wasn't really against Jews but working for Jews to take attention off of sneaky Jewery going on elsewhere in the World.
NELLY, FEATURING PAUL WALL AND BIG GIPP - Speaking upon grills aka grilles aka grillz.
NEW QUOTE CITY - Things I hearded people say or talk of in my IRL that made laugh all like LOL, but silently inward style so that nobody got all angrily ANFMF on me.
GPS KNOCKIN' ON YOUR FRONT DOOR - Paranoid ramblings about how their doing a front door census of GPS coordinates for every inhabited structure in America. No shit.
SAVING THE UNSAVED - More conspiratorial ramblings, about bitch-ass liberals trying to give dirty Africans computers being just like missionary Christians in essence.
THE SHITTIEST TOWN I EVER LAID TIRE GRIT UPON - Weirton, West Virginia, in case you were wondering. Oh the night I spent there.
INFORMATION SUPER INTERSTATE - Me haterizing on some stupid shit, most likely.
HONKYTONK BADONKADONK - Two actual instances of real life situations where I saw or heard about that stupidest of all songs being appreciated by somebody.
SLANG DOCTOR - Talking about how me and Brown use "loungin'" like the Smurfs use "smurf".
DIRT TRACK SATURDAY NIGHT - Mad love for my local dirt tracks.
NEW SCHOOL HOT RODS ON REMAKE - Verbally showing my disappreciation of them bitch-looking new school Chargers and Mustangs and all that crap that rednecks think makes them look like Stone Cold Steve McQueen or some shit.
SCRATCH-OFF LOTTERY TICKETS - My latest pasttime.
GHOSTWRITER ADMITTANCE - fuck it there's all sorts of stupid shit in this issue as it went more old school zine style and less with the long-winded rants, so I'll just list all the rest of the shit here on out.
WHAT WOULD DOUG LEWELLYN DO - about a fifty cent beer that was warm.
CORAN CAPSHAW - KING OF CHARLOTTESVILLE - about a local dickhead.
NASCAR DAUGHTERS - about something funny a dude told me on top of scaffolds one day.
A QUESTION FOR THE FAST AND MORE FURIOUS AMONGST YOU ALL - about something nobody's answered for me yet.
STRAIGHT OUT OF FARMVILLE VEE AY, SO WHAT YOU GOT TO SAY - about my boy Rob and the Lady of Rage and other stupid back home shit.
THE WORLD FAMOUS DEW DROP INN - about the best dank bar in my town not being so best and so dank no more.
GOAT ENVIRONMENT NEGLECT - about goat ingenuity and raven slothfulness doing battle.
SERVICE & PROTECTORATES - about po-po.
PROTECTING MY INNER-ENVIRONMENT - about sea weed.
SIMPLE LIVING FOR REAL - about shit you can do easy around the house if your house is mad fucked-up like mine.
EGO STROKING - about me getting big-headed.
BRAIN FROZE AKA EVERY WHICH WAY BUT JUICE - about the DVD about the Brain Freeze shows.
CONFEDERATE MACK KIDS CORNER - about a couch.
THOUSAND FEATHERS FLUTTER OFF AND BLOW AWAY WITH THE WIND - about watching some kid wrestle with feeling like a faggot in the eyes of a redneck father.

#83 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: Catch A Bad One

I remember this being the first single where I was all like, "Man, Del's starting to suck and shit," but now, I guess because hip hop is so fuckin' shitty, I can dig on this single. It's got that wacky "Wack MCs" b-side track, and I bet I could sell that shit on ebay for like next to nothing after shipping it, and plus I'd have to find a scrap of cardboard box to pack it in, and I'd have to answer questions from shithead nerdz about quality and approval rating and all that cyber flea market status quo nonsense. Man, seriously, fuck some robots. If Maximum Overdrive ever happens for real, folks running around with cellphones and ipods and blue teeth and all that shiny crap are for-real seriously screwed so bad that even Emilio Estevez won't be able to save their asses. But Del, he's on some fuckin' white girls while eating mushrooms shit, which I've wavered in my life as to whether I like or not in the hippitty hoppro muzaks, and lately I'm into it. I actually got to watch like 45 minutes of Rap City today, the first time in a couple years, and man oh man does that shit suck, making me like Del crap even more, though it would be nice if he drove a '68 Chevelle with candyflake paint and 20 inch rims like Southern rappers seem to be doing nowadays. Old muscle cars and big shiny rims are two great tastes that taste great together. Now, if only they'd stop it with those pitter pat keyboard beats.

#29 RAP TAPES: The Iceberg

Man, Ice T, hunh? Been a long time since I ever remember listening to these tapes, so I'm not sure what was going through that beady little smoke-stained head of mine. I do know that the combo of Black Sabbath and Jello Biafra's whiny-assed voice in the intro is some awesome shit - way more awesome than anything Jello Biafra has ever done on his own. I know a chick who's cousin or some shit is dating Biafra and they were all together at Christmas dinner or something or other and Jello Biafra was a big fat shithead the whole time. Word to budding revolutionaries sipping on fat coffees who might read this crap: YOU WON'T CHANGE ANYBODY'S MIND ABOUT ANYTHING IF YOU ACT LIKE A CONDESCENDING COCKSUCKER! Unless you are a girl and literally a cocksucker, but even then you don't actually so much change someone's mind as you do just get them to pretend they agree with you for a little while.

#84 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: Outta Here

I think Return of the Boom Bap is really the last time I felt like KRS wasn't full of shit, which he probably was all along, and I think I bought every single they released off that album. "Outta Here" is a great song, and to this day, me and my boy Brown say that shit, usually by also mentioning five thousand dollar love seats. Who the fuck buys fancy couches? What kind of a fruit do you have to be to spend heavy wads of folding bills on a goddamned couch? And sometimes, that shit only has one arm, like you're some Roman emperor kicking it on that jank. Fuck that noise. The B-side to this is the "I'm a blunt getting smoked and I can't wake up," which is always great fun for about the first verse, then you realize all KRS is doing is pretending to be weed and talk about every rapper who talks about weed, which I guess is supposed to be clever, but really isn't that clever. Still though, "Outta Here" is a great track. My heart beats to the boom bap. Fuck all this tinny casio children's chant shit that gets put out nowadays.

#30 RAP TAPES: Escape From Havana

There's no real answer for how this fell so high on this countdown, as there's nothing outstanding about Mellow Man Ace's solo tape. I guess maybe I was stoked because I was secretly looking for old school breakbeats to jack for personal purposes by doing this project and found like two or three on this tape alone. I might also be brainwashed secretly by AM radio signals of reggaetone songs picked up by the metal plate that holds my left eyeball in place. Or perhaps I just wish I was a beaner, so that I could have like seventeen children with a big-assed girl I love, but still didn't mind fucking a 17-year-old on the side, and I could watch lucha libre and eat meat overspiced with cumin seed till I died from a heart attack at like 53. Oh yeah, and I'd be using avocados like butter.

CM NET CLASSICS: 14 Things That Killed The Good Ole Boy

[I've come to hate this fuckin' thing, but it was the first piece of shit I put up on the internet like 19 years ago, and I still get comments from people about it. Figured I'd put it up so those folks could see how dated and stupid it is.]
14 THINGS THAT KILLED THE GOOD OLE BOY
The Good Ole Boy is not an asshole redneck, though he will get drunk and start a fight with you every once in a while. The Good Ole Boy has the hard-working greasy blue jean style of a redneck. He has the good-hearted generous nature and long dirty hair of a hippie. He has the simplistic attitude of an actual Mexican, not one of these capitalism-polluted Mexican-Americans, but one from Mexico driving a beat up Dodge Dart with a milk crate for a seat. And he has the hair trigger ability to blow up recklessly and violently for no reason of a rock star. He is a hippie Mexican redneck rock star, and the Good Ole Boy is almost extinct. Here are 15 things that have killed the Good Ole Boy.
NEW-FANGLED EQUIPMENT FOR COPS
It used to be the local cops wouldn't chase after the Good Ole Boy. They knew him and his family, and they'd just come by and tell the Good Ole Boy's mama to tell the Good Ole Boy to settle down or they were gonna have to bust him. And as long as the Good Ole Boy didn't do anything too malicious or outrageous, he got by with warnings. The only police types that would hassle him would be state troopers or federal agents if the Good Ole Boy was involved in illegal liquor or drugs. And you could run from them. And if you made it back to your little rural neck of the woods, they'd never find you. Hell, they didn't like looking around those parts, as long as Good Ole Boy stayed amongst his kind, they let him be. Nowadays though, they got fancy radios to tell all the other cops that the Good Ole Boy is running. And they got helicopters and TV shows and crimestopper rewards and, worst of all, they got the local cops believing in this law and order bullshit more than they believe in a sense of their own community. Local cops now will sell out the Good Ole Boy to a fancy-tongued city cop and send a guy he went to school with off to prison for years and years. The Good Ole Boy can't hide in his neck of the woods anymore because there's traitors there. And the traitors and their city cop buddies have all kinds of fancy electronic equipment that will and can monitor the Good Ole Boy. The most the Good Ole Boy can hope for is an electronic monitor for home release so he can hang out with his Ol' Lady and at least have sex with a woman.
FANCIER LAWS
It used to be if the Good Ole Boy committed a crime, he committed one crime. Now the Law's got all these fancy extra laws where if the Good Ole Boy robs a store, not only is he charged with robbing a store, he's charged with robbing a store with a gun, he's charged with carrying a gun without a permit, he's charged with being charged more than once for the same thing, he's charged with having a gun and no license, he's charged with robbing a store that was within half a mile of a school, he's charged with all kinds of shit for the one crime. So the Good Ole Boy gets all kinds of time for the one crime. And the Good Ole Boy ain't amongst a lot of other Good Ole Boys when he goes to jail, he's amongst a lot of Young Black Males, themselves a hunted species, though they're not nearly as endanger of becoming extinct as the Good Ole Boy. And plus they rule the jails. The most the Good Ole Boy can hope for is to make friends by doing cassette recorder tattoos in the shower for cigarettes and extra juices at breakfast.
WAL-MART
That evil blasphemous Tower of Babel known as the Wal-Mart Supercenter. Wal-Mart brought big city products to small-town minds, and fucked them all up. Small-town minds (not small minds, just simpler, which is not a bad thing, it's good to live a simple life) were dazzled by the array of clothes and lots of old Alan Jackson compact discs and little die-cast Dale Earnhardt cars in seven different styles. And the poison sunk in. They no longer cared about cooking deer steaks on the pile of rocks with an old refrigerator grate over top of it in the backyard; they wanted a gas grill from Wal-Mart. That old Toro pushmower that cut off everytime the Good Ole Boy hit a big clump of dandelions was replaced by a fancy-ass riding mower with headlights, headlights on a lawn mower for christsake. All his idle time out in the middle of nowhere was taken up by all these goddamned new possessions, and the Good Ole Boy didn't spend that idle time doing crazy shit like building monster trucks or drinking heavily and gambling or any of the good ole things Good Ole Boys were famous for.
THE GLAM ROCK/GRUNGE MUSIC/GANGSTA RAP COMBO
The Good Ole Boy was always predisposed to rock-n-roll. Yeah, country music was alright, but it was too slow and whiny, except some outlaw shit like Hank Jr. or David Allan Coe or some Waylon. Rock-n-roll was perfect for cranking up over the roar of a late model engine drunkenly barreling down back country roads that might accidentally twist in an unplanned direction at any second. Rock-n-roll was perfect for late at night blaring loudly from the front room while the Good Ole Boy got it on with some sweet little thang in leopard print panties in the back bedroom. The Rock Show in a nearby city was a religious pilgrimage for the Good Ole Boy, where loads of other Good Ole Boys and their sweet little thangs from other parts of rural America met together and held their lighters up in unison as a symbol of indebtedness to the great Gods of Thunder. "Here is our fire, we give it to you Gods of Thunder to burn this un-Good Ole Boy-like world down to a dirt road with some pool halls and a liquor store!" But then in the mid-80's rock-n-roll let the Good Ole Boy down. Dirty jeans and black leather bands like AC/DC and the Scorpions were being replaced by lavendar laced pretty boys like Cinderella and Poison. Any self-respecting Good Ole Boy is not gonna listen to music made by a guy that's cute. Hell, even fuckin' Motley Crue, black and red leather and Satanic shit and fuckin' rock-n-roll man; they started wearing pink and purple on their third record. I don't care how cool "Home Sweet Home" was, they were gay now. So the Good Ole Boy waited for rock-n-roll to come back around. After all the years of held up lighters, after all the years of wearing black t-shirts, after all the years of turning on younger brothers and cousins, the best rock-n-roll could do for the Good Ole Boy was grunge music. Whiny city boys not singing about pussy, not banging out loud dirty rock-n-roll; but instead complaining about shit, letting feedback all over their songs, singing like that fag in drama class from the Good Ole Boy's high school days. See, a Good Ole Boy is about the pleasures of the senses, not about worrying about the fuckin' world. And grunge music was the last straw for the Good Ole Boy and his worship for the Gods of Thunder. So he converted. To the Lords of Bass. Gangsta rap was sweeping from the inner-cities through the suburbs and out to the rural areas. They talked about pussy, they drove overly-accessorized cars, they smoked weed and drank beer and were proud of it. And the Good Ole Boy mutated into the Wigga Kid.
ARABS
Arabs control oil production. In the late '70s, due to a lack of oil production, a severe gas crisis started. In response, car companies began making shitty little jellybean cars that all look alike and have no style. No more 1 ton mechanisms of self-destruction the Good Ole Boy could work on constantly to make faster, to make shinier, to make more likely to plant a Tammy or a Cindy in the passenger seat, which was one long seat with leather all the way across. If Tammy or Cindy slid over to the middle of the seat to sit right beside you, her legs had to straddle the hump of the transmission, subconsciously putting her in the mood, plus the Good Ole Boy had to reach over to shift the chrome shifter, and that gave him ample opportunities to start rubbing on her knees and working his way to the promised land. But the new cars were bucket seats with storage compartments in between them. And small. And they worked good. And if they didn't they were so goddamned alien-looking under the hoods because everybody built like the Japs now that the Good Ole Boy was confused and didn't' know how to fix shit. So the Arabs damned greedy late '70s ways killed the Good Ole Boy and his hot rod.
HOLLYWOOD'S "IGNORIFICATION" OF THE REDNECK
In the past, TV and movies gave the Good Ole Boy his due. You had your Jed Clampetts and Duke boys on the small screen. And Clint Eastwood's Philo Bedo and Burt Reynold's Bandit blew up the big screen so much that they practically gave rise to the idea of a movie sequel. Good Ole Boys might have been a bit simple and animalistic, but hell, they were good old boys. The public couldn't fault them, in fact, they liked them. People wished they could have a pet orangutang that drank Olympia, or jump a souped up Dodge over a creek and have a cop wreck behind them. But then all those positive characters disappeared. No more trucker movies. No more rural sitcoms. No more Hee Haw on national TV. And after a quieting down period, Hollywood stormed back with a new image of the Good Ole Boy as a murderous pervert, as an unyielding racist, as an ignorant bumpkin sucking on a piece of straw. Uncle Toms like Jeff Foxworthy started popping up, making fun of their own upbringing and heritage, shucking and jiving for the middle classes' delight. And the Good Ole Boy started to feel ashamed. Hell, all the Good Ole Boy types in the media weren't that good. And the Good Ole Boy became embarrassed to pass on his Good Ole Boy traditions and history onto the next generation.
RIC FLAIR WORKING FOR A YANKEE
Wrestling, or "wrasslin" to the Good Ole Boy, has always been a ceremonial performance for the Good Ole Boy. Rich guys were assholes. Hard-working beer drinkers kicked ass. Cowboys beat up on Russians. The long-haired southern boy with a bullrope always beat the gold-bearded black guy with the shit-talking manager in a frilly tuxedo. Wrestling reaffirmed the Good Ole Boy's beliefs, and made him feel special. Then along came that piece of shit Vince McMahon, who perverted wrestling from a regional attraction to an internation circus featuring clowns and voodoo witches and evil Canadians. Before wrestling went national, the regional circuits would do anywhere from one to four shows, each month, in all the major cities in their area. The Richmond Coliseum had a wrestling show every month. And it was usually packed with people. And all the small towns in the region could expect seeing wrestling at the local high school gym or VFW hall or community center or armory at least once a year. The Good Ole Boy got to see his heroes and villains up close and personal. But when it went national, all the Good Ole Boy got to do was watch it on TV. Every once in a while, they'd come to the nearby city and he'd go and it would suck because there'd be no blood, no satisfaction. It had always been geared towards families, but now instead of being geared towards a Good Ole Boy's family that would come back next month or next year to watch all his heroes and villains again, it was geared towards middle class families that would buy up $25 t-shirts and foam fingers and not give a shit about a program for the night's event, they were more concerned that the Big Star show up so they could see him in person. There was no more excitement that a championship might change hands, that was saved for the pay-per-views the Good Ole Boy couldn't afford. But Jim Crockett Promotions tried to fight Vince McMahon, with old fashioned southern style wrestling. Hell, they had 4th of July shows with fireworks and David Allan Coe. That's Good Ole Boy Heaven right there. But Crockett couldn't compete financially, and he sold the whole deal to corporate America. They don't know how to run a wrestling show, still don't. And Ric Flair, the Jesus figure to the Good Ole Boy, yeah he's bad, but he means well. Just into partying, getting the girls, and kicking a little ass. And plus he's from North Cackylacky. But corporate America fucked it up. And Ric Flair left to go work for Vince McMahon. Wrasslin' was dead, and sports entertainment had replaced it with all it's sterility and decadence. No good and bad, just blurred lines of cults of personality to encourage merchandising. And now the Good Ole Boy is left confused, rooting for whatever rip-off of the original Four Horsemen is being passed off as the anti-authoritarian regime, whether it be Stone Cold Steve Austin or the New World Order or whatever, the Good Ole Boy is just hoping for that peak again, when Ric Flair and Tully Blanchard and Arn & Ole Anderson ruled the world. And you can go to a wrestling show nowadays, and you'll see the quiet Good Ole Boy, beaten down and hobbled by a society that doesn't protect his natural habitat, sitting there with a short and long haircut. And when a wrestler chops another wrestler across the chest, the Good Ole Boy will flashback to days when his kind ruled the world, and he'll "Whoo" along with all the other defeated Good Ole Boys, and they'll be sad 'cuz it's a little Mexican fucker in a shiny mask they're whooing for.
BURT REYNOLDS' DESPERATE YEARS
Burt Reynolds was living every Good Ole Boy's dream; he was driving fast as shit fancy cars, he was having sex with rich girls, and he was making millions of dollars while wearing a cowboy hat and a button down shirt with half the buttons unused. But then came the comedy. Good Ole Burt was teamed up with fat-ass questionable sexuality Dom Deluise in that damned Cannonball Run movie. Burt became a shucker and jiver, doing his bit for the highest dollar. And that movie made money, but then all Burt got offered was stupid buffoon comedy roles. Don't even mention to me the fact a third Smokey & the Bandit movie even exists, hell the second one was bad enough. And the second Cannonball Run, goddamn they're carrying an elephant around in a truck, fuckin' unbelievable. After that, Burt wasn't the hot commodity, and neither was the Good Ole Boy. Nobody wanted a macho devil-may-care funny-talking rebel with a rebel flag belt buckle anymore. They wanted a clean shaven robot like Arnold. Or a punch-drunk wop like Sly Stallone. And Burt was left high and dry, doing only the occasional movie with an old buddy pulling for him like Clint Eastwood (remember that movie where they were a pair of cops, damn, that was a terrible movie). Until Boogie Nights came out and offered the sex symbol of the '70s the opportunity to be a perverted old fuck with questionable sexuality. One more nail in the Good Ole Boy's coffin.
UNITED NATIONS SPONSORED AMERICAN PUBLIC SCHOOLS
Winners teach history, and according to the winners the south sucked. They killed Jews and raped children and wanted to kill black people by making them work too hard. Now the Good Ole Boy's natural inclination is towards the south, since that environment sprouted him, and plus they got a pretty cool looking flag. When the Good Ole Boy, in his young sprouting stage, is told that the water that makes him grow into a big strong fun-loving fool, is in actuality a terrible poison that wanted to exterminate everything unlike it, but luckily yankee industrialists freed black people from the oppression of cotton fields and packed them into tenement housing where the most they can hope for is a shitty security guard job, well all those lessons made the Good Ole Boy cower. He wanted to be a Good Ole Boy, not an evil menace. Hell, most Good Ole Boys never had any problems with black folks, brown folks, no folks. Good Ole Boys liked everybody that liked to have a good time. But history killed the Good Ole Boy's confidence in his homeland, all part of a plan to kill any form of national pride, so that the one world government can become a reality; but that's a whole other can of worms.
MIDDLE CLASS CO-OPTING WHITE TRASH CULTURE
There are actually suburban raised fucks with "Good Ole Boy" tattooed on their arms. There are actually college girls with WHITE TRASH PRINCESS stickers on their undented cars. There are actually people who think wearing a cheap cowboy hat with a pair of skateboarding shoes is cool. When a Good Ole Boy sees shit like this, he don't feel so good anymore.
GARTH BROOKS
Country music always had some outlaw mentality to it. Garth Brooks was no exception when he stormed onto the scene in the early '90s. "I got friends in low places where blah blah blah and the beer it chases my blues away." That's country music. That's Good Ole Boy talk. But Garth sold millions of records and got fancy. He started wearing those weird shirts with no collar but still all the buttons and that damned microphone attached to his cowboy hat that put him in company with Madonna and other people who performed with that stupid shit on their head. And Garth pulled all the strings in Nashville. No more songs about drinking. No more songs about womanizing. No more songs about jail and fighting and hopping trains and beating up assholes. In other words, no more songs talking the Good Ole Boy talk. And the Good Ole Boy was brainwashed by the bullshit. He started liking dumb shit like Travis Tritt and he started putting bedliners in his pick-up truck. The Good Ole Boy became a demographic.
INTER-RACIAL DATING
Now, before I start rambling on this, don't send me any dumbass e-mails about being against interracial dating. I could care less who fucks who, I'm not prejudiced against colors, just social classes. But the fact of the matter is, dating amongst different races started getting more popular in the late '80s and early '90s. And more white girls were being exported than black girls were being imported. More Tammys and Cindys stopped feathering the bangs and started pulling the hair back into a skintight ponytail and wearing giant hoop earrings, but very few Kenyas and Yolandas were willing to share the front bench seat of a '72 Nova Supersport. So the Good Ole Boy had to adjust to get some ass. He started pumping some Dre and Snoop Dogg. He started putting fat rims on his truck. And instead of jacking that truck up, he lowered it, sometimes even going to the drastic measures of cutting the springs so that there was no turning back. The Good Ole Boy needed to procreate, and like any species, he adapted for survival.
BEING THE LAST PAWN
The powers that be have always put some sort of barrier between the middle class and themselves. Once the '80s had come around, all those barriers had been exposed. The powers couldn't buffer themselves with the blacks or the Hispanics. This was considered racist. So they created the scapegoat of white trash. Not only did it buffer the middle class from the upper class, it created a place to put all the blame of past racist actions. Black people were oppressed? Trailer trash must've done it. Mexicans getting ripped off? Rednecks did it. I've never understood how people are so stupid to believe a form of white person who has absolutely no clout in this economically-based political system could be responsible for all the evils done to minorities. They've become the scapegoat for fat, rich, hog-jowled whiteys in luxury SUVs who write the laws and rap the gavels across America. Luckily, white trash is the last scapegoat, so once people wise up to that one, maybe we can all start rioting in unity.
THE TRAGIC DEATH OF RONNIE VAN ZANDT
Lynyrd Skynyrd was the penultimate Good Ole Boy band. They rocked stadiums full of drunks. They tore up hotel rooms and got in fights. They drank their share of liquor, and weren't afraid of the other substances relegated to the backroom only. And their songs told righteous tales of being a simple man, finding the good in a simple life, not getting caught up in materialism and prejudice. And they told tales of "carryin' on" as my Grandma would say. That meant doing shit the elders wished you didn't do. And when that plane went down and Ronnie Van Zandt died, so did a prophet of Good Ole Boyness. Lynyrd Skynyrd has struggled to recreate that magic ever since. And no Good Ole Boy prophet has risen up to replace, or at least try to carry on what Ronnie Van Zandt was saying to the people. The Good Ole Boy became a man without spiritual guidance; and a people with no spiritualism is bound to die off.
So the Good Ole Boy has been destroyed from all sides, a victim of a system that doesn't appreciate his kind. And no one cares. We'll complain about loggers killing a damned owl or crack cocaine destroying black communities or any other fashionable cause. But we never raise our voice against the suburban sprawl that meanders further and further outside of every American city, destroying the natural habitat of the Good Ole Boy. We don't complain about new interstates being blasted through the countryside so that we can get to our aunt's house in St. Louis a little faster, god forbid we have to slow down too much. We don't care that Wal-Marts destroy the Main Street mom-and-pop stores that are already struggling from the strip malls in every small town Wal-Mart deems profitable enough to open up in. We don't mind all the dirt and gravel roads getting paved even though only three families live down that road. We want progress.
Well fuck all yall. You killed the Good Ole Boy and all that's left is his squeaky-clean, always sober racist redneck cousin in a just-waxed brand new pick-up truck with not even a single chunk of wood rattling around in the bed. You murdered the Good Ole Boy and all that's left is his low-riding blunt-smoking No Limit Soldier nephew in color coordinated Fubu trying to figure out how to shave his sideburns into a pencil thin strip. And the few Good Ole Boys there are left, those rare few that somehow have survived the onslaught, you add insult to injury by hiring them to sheetrock and paint and plumb and carpent your houses. You bastards.

NFL DORKERY: Western Division Teams Ranked

[Again, I'm a day late on last week's weekly rankings, so pretend yesterday never happened, just like I plan on doing with my stupid Redskins. I plan on getting back to the weekly track this week, though I doubt anybody but Mavpa reads this bullshit, and he probably doesn't even read it. HAPPY ANONYMITY, INTERNET WASTELAND! Hi, mom.]
#1: Denver Broncos (6-2)
(last ranking time #2) The western divisions are sort of lackluster, or maybe it's just the NFL in general, but it allows a guy like Jake Plummer to be the AFC's answer to Rex Grossman and kind of slip through a good season even though he's prone to games where he completely fucks everything up for everybody. Such teams are terrible to be a fan of come playoff time. Mike Shanahan is one of my least favorite coaches, and I've always hated the Broncos ever since ol' horsehead was their QB, because he was a big ol' bitch who refused to play for the Colts who drafted him out of college. I guess I should make a practice to hate Eli Manning for the same reasons. Primadonna fucks.

#2: San Diego Chargers (6-2)
(last ranking time #3) The Chargers starring LT v2.0 are a slightly better version of the Detroit Lions starring Barry Sanders, in that they have the greatest fuckin' player going, but haven't made a whole lot of noise ever in the playoffs. Maybe this year is their year. Then again, maybe not. The dude that won my stupid email football pool last year is a Chargers fan, and he gloats a lot about stupid shit, so I sort of root against the Chargers just because of him. Though I don't outright root against them, I like to see them succeed enough to just barely fail. Marty Schottenheimer is the perfect coach to make things like that come true, with his bad luck bridesmaid grumpy old ass.

#3: Seattle Seahawks (5-3)
(last ranking time #1) The Seahawks are really lucky they play in the NFC West, because it tricks people into thinking they are any good. Shaun Alexander sure is tough, ain't he? I imagine he and T.O. will one day adopt a Chinese girl so they can raise a kid together. Hopefully they make a reality show out of that one, and hopefully it's on a cable channel that I'd never see being all I have is an antennae, and it goes for like three hilarious years before I ever hear about it, and then everybody ever tells me it's the greatest show ever, so I can get all three seasons off Netflix and watch that shit all at once for like two weeks.

#4: Kansas City Chiefs (5-3)
(last ranking time #5) Herm Edwards can coach quality just-above-mediocrity out of any 54 players you give him. He has made a career of doing so. Larry Johnson should get a nickname because that's a pretty stupid name he's got. No one's ever gonna hire him to do Pepsi commercials or even United Way ads with an every day moniker like that.

#5: St. Louis Rams (4-4)
(last ranking time #4) Hey, let me let you in on a big secret - the Rams suck. They always will because they are a stupid dome team. They struck lightning gold in bottles flash that two-year period where arena league Jesus blessed Kurt Warner was possessed by God to bring arena league-style speedy high-scoring football to the NFL, but it was short-lived, and they won't be shit in St. Louis for a few years to come.

#6: San Francisco 49ers (3-5)
(last ranking time #6) Alex Smith is the new Jake Plummer. After suffering through the 49ers success of the late '80s/early '90s, I can't see enough of them sucking it up. I don't even remember who their coach is... I think it's that fuck who used to be with the Giants maybe. Or is it some college guy? They do have Vernon Davis, who likes to cry and is not gonna do well with more stringent drug testing in the NFL like they're talking about. That dude looks like a black He-Man, and is the latest in about six years straight of the "tight end of the future" style tight ends, all of whom suck more than Chris Cooley does.

#7: Oakland Raiders (2-6)
(last ranking time #8) Poor Art Shell, coming back to this. I imagine Warren Sapp and Randy Moss going out to seafood buffets together with Shell, and just complaining and complaining and complaining about every fuckin' little piece of shit thing they can complain about, and Shell having to sit there and listen because Al Davis instructed him to placate the faces of the team. I also imagine Robert Gallery playing a lot of video games, by himself, while high, and listening to Motley Crue.

#8: Arizona Cardinals (1-7)
(last ranking time #7) Hahaha, Denny Green thought he could make the worst team in professional sports not be the worst team in professional sports. The NFL could give the Cardinals Peyton Manning, LaDainlian Tomlinson, Brian Urlacher, and Champ Bailey, and they'd still be lucky to go 4-12. Denny Green, who was hyped as this great super coach who deserved a second chance other than the Vikings and it was a sign the NFL might be racist he never got interviewed for every shitty coaching job ever, and then he finally got hired in Arizona, which I think is a bigger sign of racism than him not being interviewed in other places. Seriously, you got two new black coaches these past few years, going to Oakland and Arizona, where they are doomed. Somebody's setting up the black man to fail.

#85 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: Jeep Ass Niguh

When the Juice Crew's Master Ace repackaged himself as Masta Ace, Inc. and came out with this single (shit, the whole record it came off was swanker than fuck), it was my favorite shit. First off, this single came out on clear vinyl, which is a pain in the ass for a DJ trying to mix or cue it up, but to someone who seen a lot of colored vinyl from obscure 7-inches where people yell and act like they're rebelling against Bank of America and Volvos and shit, I was stoked to see the colored vinyl. "Jeep Ass Niguh" is an awesome song, never to be topped as a Masta Ace single, until he slowed it down from west coast influence and re-dropped it as "Born to Roll". B-side "Saturday Night" is good fun as well, though not as great as Schoolly D's "Saturday Night".

#31 RAP TAPES: Live And Let Die

Seriously, Kool G. Rap is one of the best MCs ever. And in my expert whiteboy analytical internerd opinion, this is one of his best tapes ever, maybe the best. (What the fuck ever happened with DJ Polo anyways?) Sir Jinx who had co-production duties with The Bomb Squad on Ice Cube's first solo tape, also had a ton of co-production on this, and the mix of a touch of west coast funk to G. Rap's rapid-fire east coast onslaught - that shit was motherfuckin' awesome. G. Rap originated all that Wu-Gambino shit that Raekwon and Ghostface took off with (Ghost switched it up with all the weird obscure religious references and style-mongering, but Raekwon is a LOT like a weaker version of Kool G. Rap), and in turn that sort of led to a lot of the Scarface cocaine rap that came from NYC just under a decade ago, which has resurged in a much shittier version in southern sing-song children's chants cocaine rap. It's all a downhill slide from Kool G. Rap. If you don't have this shit, steal it from the internet you internet faggot.

NFL DORKERY: Southern Division Teams Ranked

[I forgot to do my stupid NFL rank thing last week, so pretend this was last week, just like I'm going to, and show you what a genius I am when it comes to the football.]

#1: Indianapolis Colts (7-0)
(last ranking time #1) The Colts are great and all, but they're totally gonna get destroyed by Tom Brady and the Patriots this week. Peyton's gay-assed audible calls from the line with Tennessee theatre major overemphasis are no match for Tom Brady's no-nonsense Joe Montana-esqueness. And I bet Rodney Harrison has a long full game as well.

#2: Atlanta Falcons (5-2)
(last ranking time #4) Ol' Michael Vick complained about not being allowed to be a QB, then threw 7 touchdown passes in the last two weeks. I bet he keeps that up and totally throws a ton of TD passes and they stomp the Lions out of control style gonna be stupid how bad it is, because the Falcons are totally legit the best team going in the NFC to challenge the Bears.

#3: New Orleans Saints (5-2)
(last ranking time #3) Apparently, the Saints are America's team now, because nothing is more American than getting totally fucked-up by something you have no control over, but then you can still make a flashy run of things briefly before reality sets in and your life gets as shitty as it always was, regardless of natural forces of a negative or positive nature.

#4: Carolina Panthers (4-4)
(last ranking time #5) Without Steve Smith, the Panthers are doomed all the time completely. With Steve Smith, they are only doomed every other week. Jake Delhomme, if I remember tenth grade french correctly, his name means "Jake of the Dude", so they'll always be semi-successful, I would imagine. One of the local AM radio sports stations is a Panthers affiliate, so I'll just be driving along and there'll be a panther roar and then like the team trainer will say "You're listening to piece of shit Charlottesville crappy AM 1304 and a half, home of the Carolina Panthers and shitty dude who follows ESPN paid programming at four o'clock."

#5: Jacksonville Jaguars (4-3)
(last ranking time #2) Seems like the Jags have set themselves up to perpetually be one of those teams that might suck, but might not, and yeah we'll go to the playoffs, but we won't do much with that, except every now and then we make the conference championship, but that's about it. That's the Jags, in a black QB's jockstrapshell.

#6: Tampa Bay Buccaneers (2-5)
(last ranking time #6) They won a couple of them real quick-like, but still suck. Yellowman Sims had his spleen ruptured with tackles. Now they've got some Polish dude quarterbacking who has done well, but fuck, it's the Buccaneers. They snuck in and won a Super Bowl one time, but they're back to mediocrity forever and a day.

#7: Houston Texans (2-5)
(last ranking time #7) Mario Williams, the super-touted great draft pick of this year, is finally getting sacks. Big shit. A team that has been this shitty since their inception a few years back is a shame to the hometown pride that guys like Lil Keke and Mike Jones and OG Ron C have displayed for a while. I blame it on the shitty colors the Texans chose, as well as the name. They should change it to the Houston Rap-a-lots and make their team colors gold and black with platinum numbers and face masks. I bet they'd win a thousand Super Bowls like that. Plus, make Bum Phillips their coach, if he's still alive.

#8: Tennessee Titans (2-5)
(last ranking time #8) They beat the Redskins. Vince Young may have won a national championship with the University of Texas last year, but I don't think there's been a better retardedly named quarterback in football as Colt McCoy since Billy Joe Tolliver retired. If Colt McCoy ends up playing in the CFL, I will get a satellite again, because seeing a guy named Colt McCoy play for Saskatchewan or whoever with a weird geographic name still has a CFL team, that's some dumb shit that's worth the price of TV overload, so long as I have money left over to buy marijuana to encourage the proper enjoyment of said stupid TV.

Death Valley Driver Video Review #163 Hype!

DVDVR #163
A ton of good stuff in here, including lucha reviews galore thanks to my man Mr. Ed Turtle. But the best shit is the Mitsuhiro Matsunaga feud round table bullshit. Then again, if you are one of the four people who read this, you already read most of this shit, at least what I did. You should go read the other dudes, too, though. All two of you.

#86 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: Soul In The Hole

This song is like the NFL putting an NFL All-Stars video starring Ian Gold, T.J. Duckett, and Kyle Boller. The Wu All-Stars was a great way to make you think the shitty Wu-Tang b-team was something more than the shitty Wu-Tang b-team. And to make it more retarded, all they did in this song was rap about playing basketball. So you have Dreddy Kruger saying "time out, god, peace, god," and Shyheim the Rugged Child rhyming about doing suicide drills making his calf muscles more muscular. Still, I used to play this instrumental like wild, mostly because I was brainwashed and me and this black dude would sit around in my trailer getting high and freestyle all the time to Wu-Tang instrumentals I had on vinyl while playing college football on the Sega Genesis I traded some weed for. It was all great fun, until we could hear the dude in the next trailer beating the shit out of his wife. She was cute too, so long as she wasn't all bruised up.

#32 RAP TAPES: Licensed To Ill

Hey, this was when even black people who didn't talk like white people liked the Beastie Boys. I used to have this chick who I dated when I was like 12 and she lived like two or three miles away, and I would ride my 10-speed to her place with this shit on the cassette walkman was the popular style at the time, sort of like your new-fangled robot ipod, but different because it was larger and didn't make you look like a faggot. Well, I would ride my bike to her place and we'd go down this gravel road where her horse she had was and we'd feed the horse then sit in the hay building and kiss and kiss and kiss and her mouth tasted like bubble gum and I never got to fuck her because her dad made her break up with me because I had hair that was not American and he was an army American. But I never compromised. I was fighting for my right, yo.

DVDVR #162
Forgot to link up the old DVDVR, with a cover drawn by my non-drinking man Mike Tommyrot. He probably don't know he did it, but I found it and put it up there. Plus reviewed some crap. Wrestling is gay, don't you know?

#87 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: The Universal Magnetic

This was the first I ever heard of a Mr. Mos Def, and it was great. Dug the beats, dug the intelligent-against-the-grain-of-gangsta rhymes, and dug it all. Put it on a bunch of mixtapes, and back then I was selling mixtapes to stupid fucks. Somewhere along the way, it might've been reading someone say you can't hear a Mos Def song without hearing an old school song being reworked, I lost all respect for Mos Def. He really is like an old school mix show on a Sunday afternoon, except he does the lyrics himself. Oh well. If you can hunh, you can hear.

#33 RAP TAPES: Death Certificate

When I first got this shit, I didn't like it, because it wasn't Amerikkka's Most Wanted, which is a classic, and I never really listened to it too much since back then, although for some reason it still floated around amongst my stupid clutter of material possessions. Listening to it over though, and maybe this is because it's filtered through the prism of Cube's most recent mailed-in works, I really dug the Death Certificate a lot more than I ever really remember doing in the past. I guess maybe I was just mad Cube shaved his head. Jheri curls are such a weird hairstyle, and somebody should still be rocking that shit. I mean, motherfuckers made short-and-longs trendy again, to an extent, so somebody ought to bring back the jheri curl.

#88 SLOW-MOWED SINGLES: Camouflage Ninjas

The b-side to this single is "Wake Up", which has an old Incredible Hulk tv show sample, and maybe it was that sample from my embedded childhood, or maybe the paranoid space alien illuminati lyrics, or maybe I don't know, but I played that song daily for like a year or two of my life. It was my favorite song forever and a day, and I have tormented many a person with it. It shocks me that my stupid drunk stoned ass sitting out in a free camper with an extension cord running to it listening to shit on slow could be so different from the urban Richmond (15th most dangerous city in America, word is bond!) drunkard couch-crashing vagina-scamming Datsun driver I was back when I played this shit all the time. But apparently I am.

#34 RAP TAPES: Drankin' Patnaz

This was actually the last rap tape I ever bought brand new, when the alternative record store had a shelf of like fourteen new release rap/R&B tapes. I got it just because that "don't start no shit won't be no shit" song for some reason got stuck far too deeply in my head for me to think straight. The tape is like most new tapes - full of skits and half-assed songs with shitty concepts. But "Mudpits" was a good assed song and I played the fuck out of it just because of that for a few weeks in my shitty Toyota Tercel that I looked like a giant squeezed into and eventually wrecked into a snowbank one time. Actually, I still drove it after that, but the engine started to miss pretty bad and I got the engine overhauled, and it started missing again fairly fast, and I took it to some other dude who said it needed overhauling again, and he suggested I just spray the oil off the engine and take it to the weekly auto auction place and get a couple cool hundred for it because you're not allowed to start the car at those places, but I didn't feel good about that, so instead I drove it home, missing hard, got it home with my wife following, and proceeded to big fast donuts in the yard until the engine smoked like someone had set fireworks off under the hood, and I parked it until stupid PBS came to pick up as part of their stupid donation program. Suckers.

LMOTM: Cibernetico vs. Shocker vs. Vampiro – 06/03/06 – Lucha on Galavision

Sure stupid AAA, a three-way bull terrier (that’s Spanish for dog collar) match WILL trick me into watching you a little closer for a few minutes. When it comes to having your facial expression not change even once during the course of a match, Vampiro is top-notch. What the fuck? Cibernetico and Shocker are just teaming up on Vamp, and Cibernetico is gonna chain whip him – standard dog collar match fare – but they lay a chair across Vampiro to whip the chair. That is easily the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen to pretend like it hurts somebody in the fake fighting. Even a sleeperhold makes more extreme sense, because it’s mysterious and medical. Swinging a chain into a chair laying on top of a guy is stupid. Fuck this. Although I do wish I understood more about how Cibernetico is leader of some sort of religious sect that worships cybernetics, and how this made him such a sexy unmasked man.

USMOTM: A.J. Styles vs. Air Paris vs. Sabu – 12/14/00 – NWA Wildside

Styles is almost NWA champ at this point, and under the evil spell of Jeff G. Bailey, and back in Georgia to fight Air Paris. I guess Sabu is champ and he is injured and if he can’t defend the title, Styles is champ. I have always thought of A.J. Styles and Air Paris together, because they were both in Wildside when WCW came looking for young talent, and I think they were both in that initial 6-man match that was on Nitro or some shit, and their paths since then have been completely opposite, even though they were pretty much right there together at that point. A.J. Styles is now SUPERSTAR and Air Paris is that guy you probably avoid even though you’re glad to see he’s still alive in passing. Lights go out and Air Paris is in the ring. I would bet this somehow involved a mandatory title match and Sabu’s RV getting sidetracked by a vaporizer and a half ounce of weed somewhere between Bombay and Cornelia, so Air Paris fills the gap. Paris calls Styles a “pussy” sounding like a shop class redneck, and early on, Styles is made to look better than Paris, which is probably a smart move to protect his elevated status within the wrestling political business machine. But Air Paris takes over, because he’s a simple Georgia boy full of heart, not all glossed out by international success or corrupted by stupid evil Jeff G. Bailey like A.J. Styles is. A.J.’s forgotten his roots, man; he’s changed. Shaky ropes are climbed by Styles to miss a corkscrew senton, and then Paris to miss a corkscrew moonsault. Table is set up ringside of course, and Styles lays Paris out on it of course, and lights go off down in Georgia of course, and it’s Sabu of course. He knocks Styles down, does errant dive to bust up Paris through the table, and then hits Styles with a chair. He does all his signature moves and nonsense, but in the dark church-like cavern of the NCW Arena, with his jaw all taped up because it is probably broken in five pieces and he drank some crazy glue hoping to hold himself together until Van Dam came back from San Diego with another box full of Tijuana soma.
One thing that has reinvigorated me towards the stupid professional wrestling lately has been embracing my inner-mark. Internet nerdery over wrestling is this weird little fringe element to a sub-culture where people attach all this ego to something that has absolutely no meaning to anybody outside of the fringe sub-culture. I don’t “need” to see any wrestling match ever, nor do I really give a fuck about the business side of it. I am just a stupid wrestling fan, which you have to be to watch this shit enthusiastically. And I love Sabu. And I know that's stupid. But to not love him is to stupid. To invest any time towards a logical or emotional decision as to the merits of Sabu is stupid. But for me, he could blow every spot ever for the rest of his life, but just the fact he’s a scarred-up longhaired freak in baggy, shiny, deranged genie pants will keep him one of the five best wrestlers ever forever in my mind. Sabu sets a table up in the ring, and the screen fades to blue, and when it comes back on it’s not the same match. That’s perfect – I have been duped by the television show from six years ago. Well I guess I’ll just have to embrace my inner-mark tightly and drive to fuckin’ rural-ass Georgia next weekend to see Fright Night and steal a DVD of this shit from the merchandise table. And I’m gonna eat me some boiled peanuts, too.

LMOTM: Mini Abismo Negro, Tiffany, & El Apache vs. Mascarita Sagrada, Martha Villalobos, & Billy Boy – 06/03/06 – Lucha on Galavision

Even by the clusterfuck-ability of the lucha trios match concept, this is quite the stellar retardation of a line-up, but I will watch it because of Apache. Tiffany is beating up Billy Boy and Apache is laying a couple licks into Martha Villalobos fat face. And I don’t pay attention and when I look back, Mini Abismo Negro is just barely shorter than Billy Boy and choking him and Tiffany is beating up poor little Mascarita Sagrada. I love Tiffany, even if her pooch gut is fairly obvious through her feminine Elvis jumpsuit. Her slamming midgets on their face only increases these feelings.
Actually, this is horrible. I love how wrestling promotions that really suck use a six-sided ring so that they can suck in two extra directions. Apache is tethered down in this match by doing segments with Villalobos, and even Tiffany’s tits lose their luster when I realize she has the ass of a 10-year-old boy. Although, near the end of this week’s episode, I do rather enjoy fake La Parka visiting some dying girl who has a tracheotomy and is cuddling under one of those fuzzy tiger stripe blankets in the hospital, and he gives her a mask while soft music plays. I’m sure if she could talk through the tube stuffed into her throat, she’d thank him for the green-trimmed mask so that she can scare Jesus with it when she goes to Heaven.

JMOTM: Yoshihito Sasaki vs. Mitsuhiro Matsunaga – 11/17/05 – Zero1-Max

The World is wrapped in barbed wire, not meant to contain, but to unleash the full hatred of an aged ogre of a horror wrestler and a young, virile, handsome star-yet-to-shine-its-brightest-shine. Irish whip of young Sasaki into ropes, but he slides under and looks back up with the look of a bewildered child about to be molested for the first time in a handicapped bathroom stall, and appropriately enough Mr. Danger digs into his ankle Jobox for the first time this evening. Liquor-graveled voice says, “I’m gonna stab you with this gutter spike, boy,” and sweet-voiced youngster not yet jaded to the world’s off-kilter ways of spinning answers, “I will fight it.” “HAHAHA, fight all you want, boy,” and they struggled and sweet eyes look around in horrid realization that just by fighting, he is being overpowered back into the barbed wire. There is no escaping fate, and no escaping the damage that was bound to be incurred. BUT HE DOES ESCAPE! However, instead of running, like most of us would do when escaping the clutch of our nightmare demons come to life, Sasaki charges back, only to have the nightmare demon step aside and allow the naïve young Sasaki to implant his own bare stomach, so muscular and fit, right into the same style barbs that so long ago scarred Matsunaga into the hollow shell he now stalks as.
Should you ever find yourself standing next to a piece of plywood with barbed wire wrapped over the top of it like a spiderweb, and you have an enemy of your’s head between your legs, do not ever attempt to lift him to powerbomb him onto the barbed wire, because I tell you what, chances are he’s just gonna backflip you into the shit and your barely gonna tuck your head under to land flat on your back and then one of your friends is gonna have to come help pull the fuckin’ barbs out of your back that got embedded there.
And it continues, and by the time you get to the point where Sasaki is dropped off the apron into barbed wire netting, he doesn’t even sell it, just sort of sitting up in a bloody daze waiting for someone to help him out of this mess. The molestation has occurred though, and he has lost sense of his place in these surroundings and will never get out of this mess. Welcome to the world of nightmare demons. Sure, Sasaki escapes the clutches and flips Matsunaga into a gnarly gimmick for the pinfall finale, but does one really win when they simply gain a small measure of revenge against the dark force that has changed the way sun shines in the morning for the “victor”?
And the demon nightmare stalks off in a daze into the fringe darkness of the bowels of our modern infrastructure, where more victims await, unaware.

#35 RAP TAPES: Likwidation

This tape is not so great, and probably a pretty good example of how unscientific and fucked my whole method was. Don't get me wrong, I love tha 'Liks, but fuck, this album is more bad Richard Pryor skits than actual good shit. Although the Alkaholiks are kinda like a west coast Beatnuts in that even a shitty-assed record by them is better than most shit you could waste ten bucks on. I said tape, album, and record in reference to this release, never once using compact disc. And even that shit is old to mp3 fucks. Or there's probably new shit I don't even know how to have heard of that has like everything ever implanted into your eyeball or some shit, and my daughter's gonna want to get that shit. Armageddon has been in effect, go get your late pass, which is probably some sort of infrared scan onto your right wrist microchip.

USMOTM: Tommy Rich vs. Dennis Condrey – sometime Georgia

Rich is the National TV champion, and the situation here is if he wins, he will retire as champ and there will be a tourney. But of course Condrey is here to fuck that plan all to hell and just take the goddamned title away, right here on TV, where TV titles were meant to be defended. Tommy Rich had a blonde hair that only a man from this time could have. Blonde hair like that doesn’t grow on kids, much less adults anymore, most likely because of the Sugarhill Gang.
So what’s the deal with Rich? What is the real so-called story behind his NWA reign? I always thought it was he let some dude suck his dick, and if I could just let some dude suck my dick to be 1982 or 1983 NWA World Champion, even if just for five days, I’d totally let that happen. Wouldn’t do it to be 2002 or 2003 NWA World Champion though.
Dennis Condrey turns the momentum during run-the-ropes episode with a knee to the gut - always such a great move. Both Condrey and Rich stand at least half a foot taller than the ref, making this seem like it might be, you know, an actual athletic contest of some sort involving strong men while some dork makes sure they don’t cheat, as opposed to looking like two dorks having some sort of athletic contest while some other far chubbier dork makes sure they don’t cheat. This is also an old grainy piece of footage, but digitized… still, Condrey looks at best to me like the cowardly lion wearing nothing but French-ish swimming trunks. Dutch Mantel shows up ringside to issue words of encouragement to Dennis Condrey, and to make this maybe the greatest collection of hair I’ve had on my computer at once since I found that hippiegoddess.com website a couple months back. Two men against one takes advantage, and almost as if scripted, Gordon Solie reiterates how Rich is the number one contender to the NWA World title in Georgia currently, making a dastardly stealing of the title by Condrey even more important. But then they take it home with a Rich roll-up, then post-match Rich thanks the fans for their support and just gives the title to Solie, like he said he would. And the push goes one step higher.
Holy fuck, some fat dude who’s not Gordon Solie but is an announcer says there’s a clip coming of Tommy Rich giving his own random thoughts with some music behind it. This shit is gonna be the greatest. Wildfire is in sweat suit and gets in Trans Am and rides off, rocking out to Willie Nelson while camera shots of the open-ended highway interlude. Tommy talks while images of him lacing his boots go by about saying he’d never wrestle in Atlanta again after letting the fans down after not beating Harley Race, and he went home to Nashville to stay with his momma, and wrestled there, but nothing would work and he was getting beat down because he was at his lowest point. And then that machine glitches too and there’s no more robots in this house that play these new-fangled DVDs, but I can tell you this much… Rich runs through the woods and realizes Atlanta is his new home and he’s coming back, because sometimes as adults, we feel like we’ve failed, so we run home to lick our wounds, but home isn’t home anymore and is more of a failure than what we were running from. So we go back out and kick some motherfuckin’ ass, on our own terms, where we have no family tree history. Of course, sometimes this leads to us being degenerate pervert alcoholics, but even in those occasions, if you can make for legendary stories, who the fuck cares. We may all be comfortable in our individual computer-based lifestyles, secure in our finances and material situations, but will anyone ever be stoked to see us standing outside a hotel room drink machine trying to throw quarters into the slot for three hours straight? Of course not, we’re all internet pussies. Wildfire cannot be contained within the cold wires of robot machinery; this is why no DVD player in my house could play this shit. I should be outside burning the two old dressers and limbs from a cherry tree that got struck by lightning last spring that I stacked up earlier this week out in the field.