Tag Archives: Humour


30 Nov

– Daddy Swank


29 Nov

David Caruso is like an alien species that crawled headlong out of the Florida swamps and infiltrated Miami in mirror shades. He’s the sunburned, insecure redhead you see standing in convenience stores having D&M’s with Penthouse, the type who winds himself in cling wrap on weekends then jacks off over charcoal renderings of Elvis. He gives the impression that he’s the Sensitive New Age Guy who only eats ‘orange foods’ and has installed a light-up dance floor in his bedroom just so he can solo tango to Manilo hits in the dark hours. I fucking hate those guys. They knit sweaters and wear your Grandmother’s perfume and learn archaic Tongan dialects just to sound cool in bars.

Anyone who’s ever watched the abortion that is CSI Miami will understand that Caruso is no longer an actor but a drinking game. One tortuous evening I knocked back a shot of absinthe every time he touched his gun holster and found myself up-chucking a Picasso onto the carpet as the credits rolled. Innocent suburbanites have been hospitalised after knocking back a shot of Smirnoff each time Caruso slides off his sunglasses whilst muttering lines like “No more streetwalking for her, the only job she has now is a date with the afterlife.” I made that up, but game over. David Caruso: you are a beverage.

What’s more – Caruso plays a character called Horatio Caine. Sounds like some kind of Satanic inbreed from a Edgar Allen Poe novel. One who haunts a bell tower and eats women’s fingernails and calls his hair “Mamma”. In the CSI Miami back-story, it is claimed that Horatio has a history in explosives and was a former officer of the US bomb squad. How plausible is this? Well, let’s do the math. If Horatio was sent an anthrax parcel he’d probably taste the shit. If he was confronted with six green wires sprouting from a ticking box, he’d put it in a passing pram and hope the mother failed to notice. Every episode he strokes that toy store cap gun and gazes melancholically at the bodies of dead strippers who’ve mainlined glue (when you know all he’s fantasizing about is wearing their stilettos).

Bring back Sipowitz to commercial television. He was mean, he was fat and he sported an awesome moustache and the kind of sausagey hands that could render a grown man unconscious just by accepting a smoke from one them. I miss those days. I long for the era of crime TV when the Caruso’s of this world were weeping into handkerchiefs at poetry readings and the real cops were accepting bribes from Latino street gangs, smashing delinquents heads into windows and confiscating their nose candy for personal use at the weekend. R.I.P.

– Daddy Swank.


29 Nov
Poison frontman and Rock of Love romeo Bret Michaels is the type of guy that makes me want to take a long shower under high pressure hoses in San Quentin prison. Even if there was a 9 in 10 chance of getting pack raped by a gang of horny Chicano inmates, I’d still risk it just so I could feel clean. Rock of Love 2 has tainted my life. My skin has a new sheen that soap cannot remove. I took one look at Michaels’ washed up, glam rock mug on the television and I didn’t just think “Shit Pal, your star has really faded.” I thought “Shit, your star has herpes.” And possibly became a lesbian.
Bret Michaels looks like he’s banged enough rock sluts and Jumbo’s Clown Room strippers to have picked up STD’s science didn’t even know existed. You know how you hear those freak medical stories about groups of UCLA trained doctors emerging from a field trip in the Central American jungle only to discover they’ve got some kind of satanic Panamanian swamp wasp living under their skin? Well, if you think in rock & roll terms the metaphor is easy. Here, lets do the math: Bret Michaels fucks a pole artist, a 63 year old hair metal fanatic, a Lithuanian transsexual and an underage Taco Bell grill hand in the concrete jungle of West Hollywood and 24 hours later he’s emerging from a Sunset Strip motel with a brand new venereal nightmare that is as rampant and angry as Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall.
Luckily for the general population this kind of malevolent STD hybrid rarely finds time to mutate outside of the San Fernando Valley or Tommy Lee. But this is where it gets nasty. Say some harmless, inexperienced college geek puts a fistful of 20’s in a stripper’s panties on his 21st birthday and requests that she gyrate all over his virginity in some sordid backroom. Bang: kid walks away with Brett Michaels Fever. That’s how AIDS spread. You have a one night stand on a Jack and coke bender in your innocent youth and you’re doomed to screw porno midgets and Tex Mex pole bitches for all eternity. That don’t look so good when you’re 45 and begging for it at the ankles of a 4 foot 2 fat-o-gram in clear plastic heels. You contract Bret Michaels Fever & you can’t even score with a steak house waitress. They’ll blow truckers with Chlamydia. They eat that shit up with a spoon. But you get a dose of “The Fever” and they’ll saw your cock off with an emery board. As Dennis Hopper famously said as Frank Booth in Blue Velvet: “You get a love letter from me? You’re fucked forever.” Bret needs to stamp that quote on his Imelda Marcos style head scarf collection and wear it like a registered sex offender.
The bandana. What’s with that? I haven’t caught a glimpse of his forehead since 1986. Bret’s developed an unhealthy psychosis over that faded blue gang rag that goes beyond balding. I’m sensing an outbreak of herpes along the hairline of his bad Euro weave or plugs so grossly enlarged that it makes those Taiwanese manufactured baby dolls with the satanic faces retain a more natural coiffure. Or maybe Bret Michaels Fever takes a grim turn in late stage attack; the way lepers begin to loose limbs when its raging through their bloodstream and the antibodies can’t fight back anymore. Your plugs fall out, your scalp slides off and you end up looking like an Alex Grey painting or something from 28 Day Later.
But do we lay all the blame on Bret? Will he be stoned to death like an Iranian lady boy or burned like a Salem witch, when “The Fever” spreads to the American heartland and starts taking out Republican farmers in pandemic proportions? Or worse still – when it reaches continental Europe? Is there salvation for him in his final hours? Can we brand a scarlet letter on the silicone sluts that wallow and flounder and cling to the red velvet drapes of his house in their string bikinis? Perhaps.
I know a failed porn star when I see one. The operative word being FAILED. See, Los Angeles is the biggest manufacturer of pornography in the world, profiting an estimated $14 billion a year. That’s a massive cash cow for films that are shot in garages. You want to watch Barbie fuck a 3-legged poodle? You got it. Anyone can make it in the porn industry as long as you’re nasty enough to sink to lows even Satan is repulsed by. Give me a ball gag, a razor, a guy with a colostomy bag and an exotic Malaysian fruit and even I would profit. So when I say FAILED there must be a good reason. And that reason is: Sexually Transmitted Diseases.
The Rock of Love 2 cast makes me want to get my hymen sewn back in and reclaim virginity. Angelique looks like the horny, twisted football jock from some kid’s high school nightmare who became gripped with gender confusion in the locker room and instead of going out and fucking a guy at a frat party over the Budweiser keg to get it out of his system, maxed out his mother’s credit card and invested in a pair of warped jugs and a bad French accent. If that thing is from Paris as claimed, it’s probably been deported by Carla Brunei’s sugar daddy. Inna looks like the kind of hormonally dysfunctional German dominatrix that would spank her own mother if given the chance. And Daisy. Poor Daisy. A knocked up lady boy rock slut who is so dizzy from virus that she mistook Pamela Anderson as a glamour in her youth and then paid a backward Sri Lankan orthodontist a US Visa to perform the kind of surgery that even New Guinea tribes would ceremonially vomit over. She cries a lot. That’s because of the gin and the Prozac and the shit self esteem. Oh, and all the itchiness around her panty line that the hot tub and Brett’s insincerity didn’t cure. I’m sure at some point in her sordid youth, Daisy knew what it was like to shoot reams of piss out of her penis, but hell that’s one for the ages. I think I’m getting an STD just by talking about it.
The day draws near when HIV will be applauded and Bret Michaels Fever will transcend from being just another theory to a bona fide virus in the pages of the New England Journal of Medical Science. By that time I’ll be in my underground bunker with a stockpile of food, an arsenal of sniper rifles and the Platinum Collection of Different Strokes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
 – Daddy Swank


28 Nov
John Wayne was a grade A, no questions asked, guns blazing cocksucker. Why, you ask? Because his real name was Marion and he hid it from the world. But that’s not the only reason. Satan’s favourite Encyclopedic reference Wikipedia likes to etch Wayne into history as an American icon who “epitomized a rugged masculinity”. Wrong. It should read: “John Wayne was a nigger hater and a woman hater. And he peed on kids.”
“Awwwww, don’t be cruel,” you say. ”John had four ribs removed due to lung cancer.” Cruel? John had four ribs removed just so he could blow himself without his hairpiece falling into his lap. His first wife Esperanza tried to shoot him when he came through the front door, so go figure. In May 1971 when he admitted to Playboy magazine:I eat as much as I ever did, I drink more than I should, and my sex life is none of your goddamned business,” Wayne wasn’t being coy. He was defending his right to the privacy of his Friday nights, when he reportedly went down on midgets in San Antonio urinals. In the same interview Wayne also blurted “The academic community has developed certain tests that determine whether the blacks are sufficiently equipped scholastically…I don’t feel guilty about the fact that five or ten generations ago these people were slaves. Now, I’m not condoning slavery. It’s just a fact of life, like the kid who gets infantile paralysis and can’t play football like the rest of us.” Try telling that one to some kid in South Central with an AK-47, John.
John Wayne was not an American Hero. Or a man of a “rugged masculinity”. He was a pussy. And a coward. And hid his thimble sized penis and his monkier “Marion” behind his spaghetti western pistol and his rancid, jerk off posturing.
I’m looking at a tin star with a…DRUNK pinned on it,” Wayne famously spat in El Dorado. No buddy. That ain’t so. You were right in thinking that your ugly mug was staring at a cop’s badge. But it was pinned to you. And it simply read: “Cocksucker.”


3 Sep

“Twilight is a poignant account of one boy’s struggle with narcissistic personality disorder and debilitating mental illness. We are introduced to the main protagonist Edward Cullen as he twitches at his school desk after rubbing himself with baking soda and ground chalk.  The tearjerker scene where he  plays Clair De Lune on a piano, surrounded by dry ice is an art house homage to late 1980’s and early 90’s Guns N’ Roses rock videos and is arguably the greatest cinematic depiction of a “delusions of grandeur” spell ever caught on celluloid, up there with Cassavetes’ Mabel Longhetti from A Woman Under The Influence…”

–  Tristan Black – Chicago Sun Newspaper Film Review

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30 Aug

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LONELY HEARTS CLUB: Personal Ads For The 21st Century

25 Jul

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