Tag Archives: rock and roll


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


29 Nov
Phil Spector fires guns: at walls, at John Lennon. I thought this was crazy hilarious until he blasted the face off that blonde in his Los Angele’s fuck pad. Anyone who brings a loaded pistol to a recording studio housing ‘nazi fetishist’ Johnny Ramone is harbouring the kind of demons that makes Damien from The Omen look like a character off The Partridge Family.. Word on the street is that Phil placed the barrel of his 9mm handgun against Dee Dee’s temple in the hope that Dee would play a singular chord so perfectly that the heavens would open up. Turns out that the music still wasn’t hitting the mark six hours later so Phil aimed the glock at Dee Dee’s chest, ordered the band into the piano room, locked the door and forced them to listen to him sing pop ballads till dawn.
Now here’s the thing I ain’t buying. Phil’s gone to jail for 19 years in the California State prison system. First of all, you put a freaky millionaire like Spector in the Pelican Bay penal colony and the dude’s getting bailed up in the shower block in under 2.5 seconds by some Hells Angel murder monster that didn’t quite like the drum overdubs on The Ronettes Be My Baby. We’re talking serious first aid by nightfall. Secondly, I don’t think he did it. I don’t think he blasted that blonde until she dissolved in a pool of her own tepid blood, her frontal lobe splattered on the walls like an abstract Brett Whitley paiting.
Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist but have you seen Spector’s hair? Anyone who scrapes Alabama roadkill off the highway with a set of car keys then places the prize on his head, is asking for an exorcism. I’m putting money on the vision that Phil pulled over on some desolate, hillbilly highway during one of his “spells”, John Lennon’s Imagine blaring from the stereo, and feeling insecure about his vast nylon wig collection and doomed forecast baldness, scratched a flattened swamp rat off the asphalt, rubbed it into his cranium, then drove off in a cloud of smoke and rubber into a liquid pink sunset. If that’s the case then the swamp rat has been living on Phil’s head for a long while. Until that doomed and tortured evening when it woke in a Germanic rage and began plotting to take out Z-grade Holywood slut-muppets.
As Phil slept the good sleep with his pistol under his pillow, his wig was out on the town attacking prostitutes and vagrants on Hollywood Boulevard and eating french fries in Denny’s. Then, as dawn broke over the hills and the city woke to a smog filled sky, Phil’s beloved hair piece crept back into the bedroom and pretended to rest on his teakwood nightstand until his Master’s fat fingers slapped him back on top of his greasy dome.
Then came Lana Clarkson. The hot ‘has been’ blonde. Wig got jealous. Wig decided to love Lana from a distance. Until Wig could take it no more. He leapt from Phil’s head, snatched up the pistol from the nightstand and screamed “Kiss the gun sweetheart” before blowing her brains through the back of her skull.
But hey, that’s just my theory. Keep on believing that it’s only hair. One day, when you feel a rustle on your head and the click of the chamber, you’ll know I was right all along.

Scott Stapp: Creative Suicide Threat

20 Jul

Scott Stapp Quote