Saturnalian Penis Rites

Is anyone else really sick of bands that call themselves experimental but insist on using guitar, bass and drums while maintaining popular song structures and making use of rhythms, melodies and beats?  While there is no reason you can't make experimental with those, playing chord based hippie music and singing about forks does not make you experimental.  It makes you a lazy cunt.  If you want to be experimental, then learn to play a fork, not write a song about one.  Learn to harmonize with the sounds of your bowel movements and make a recording of that.  Wire a speaker into your mother's pacemaker whilst reading aloud from a road atlas.  That would be experimental.  People seem too worried about what "fans" think.  Not enough people just have fun doing it.

Sorry but you guys may be stuck with me for a few days.  Apparently the normal writer of this blog is being detained while he's being investigated for unlicensed sodomy with an underage equine.  We here at The Mugwump Corporation have no clue how the authorities got that idea about him but we're certainly sorry we caused it.  His situation could easily be rectified but that just wouldn't be as funny.  And if laughter is the best medicine then we could be giving ourselves cancer by allowing him to go free.

I promised to write a piece but I never promised it would be coherent or cohesive.  Or did you not know that Cronus ate his own children for a reason?  Since gender roles didn't apply amongst the gods, yet apparently they had human anatomies, it is obvious he did this so that his milk would be stronger for his surviving children (had he not developed a taste for them and continued eating them)?  I recommend all women who bear more than a single child at a time to do the same.  The surviving baby will thank you for it later.  Cronus, however, was representative of time and time destroys all.  So if you're not a god then beware the legal repercussions.  There is a man in Brazil who has holy milk in his penis that offers salvation to anyone who drinks it.  He has been locked up.  This is just another example of the man trying to keep us down.

 
The answer to last week's word puzzle is "Off on a tangent."  Since no one bothered guessing I won't post another.

We will be taking donations to get Patrick out of jail (when it stops being funny).  Email me personally if you would like to make a contribution.

Equum Copulatum

As some of you may know, Patrick King and I have been friends since before either of us had killed our first man in battle.  Still fledglings, we were.  We used to sit around and drink beer and weave stories like rugs of butt hair.  I lent him some taste in good music and he tried to do the same, but come on, who actually likes the Counting Crows?  I spent more time at his house than my own and called his mother "Mom," still do.  We even dated sisters and at one point decided to switch up.  I only say this to give you an idea of how well I should know him.  Last night, however, I was shocked beyond belief by his unforeseeable and unforgivable actions.

I'd just finished shucking a large pile of bearded clams.  My fingers were as slimy as could be.  Since I don't have any running water, I usually go wipe my hands in a pile of straw I keep for my horses.  As I was approaching the stables I heard my best mare Beulah making sounds of distress.  I opened the creaky stable door and hurried in, expecting that it was nothing more than a possum hissing at her.  Poor dear does scare easily.

There stood Beulah in her little stall, nostrils flared and ears held back against her head like a dog.  And behind her, his paunch keeping time to some rhythm I couldn't hear, was Patrick, fucking my prize mare!  It was ghastly, yet strangely beautiful and entrancing.  After a moment I gathered my wits and I did what any red blooded American would do.  I raised my loaded shotgun (because I only ever set it down to shuck bearded clams) and cried, "You poor bastard, git your greasy green bean outta mah gurl.  She was a virgin and you dun defiled her.  I was savin' her fer mah burfday."

Without even seeming to hear me, he gave a jerk, his eyes bulged out then rolled back.  He opened his mouth and a trumpet sounded.  A disco ball started spinning overhead and the camera panned to curtains blowing in the breeze.  Beulah whinnied, a horn began sprouting from her head and a jar of mayonnaise crashed to the floor.  For a moment they were both shining, I swear.  Horses and humans are the only animals that have hymens.  And most of us don't.  Patrick didn't.  Beulah didn't anymore.  I broke mine years ago when I wrapped my car around a tree.  And now I can never get pregnant.

The wreck also affected my memory.  Now I disbelieve truth and worship legends.  Or maybe I'm just a liar.  Beulah wasn't really Beulah for one.  She was my stallion Blue and he was certainly no virgin.  I had celebrated my birthday early.


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On a completely unrelated note, I've started making word puzzles.  Can anyone guess what this one is?  Leave your guesses in the comments.  I'll give you the right answer in my next post.  You may get the chance to feel clever for a moment.

First Week: Han Solo. Second Week: Meh, Everything Else, I Guess

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Welcome to my class, kids. You'll notice that the first thing listed on the syllabus is "Han Solo." This should be self-explanatory, but I'll elaborate a bit. We'll spend a few days on his hair, a few more on his bravery and a few more on wisecracks. I believe strongly that there's little about life that can't be learned by thoroughly studying Han Solo. Sure, Spinoza had a few good ideas, but could he teach Jabba how to get that weird stain out of his carpet, and look good while doing it? I didn't think so. Suck it, Spinoza.

Han Solo once impersonated my daughter just so he could look up at me with them little baby eyes of his and see if it couldn't make my heart melt. Well, melt my heart did, and right through my chest! After a while it congealed like ketchup and I wondered, gee, will I ever get asked to the prom like this? Would Goat-faced Martha ever look at me the same way again? Would it cause a scandal at the church? Would I ever be able to wear a Cosby Sweater in public again? These questions were all made irrelevant when Han Solo sucked my skin through a vacuum cleaner so that he could better see whether I had any guts. I was pretty as a peacock then, and I knew for sure that Hannah Saltmine would be keen on my taking her to the sock hop in January.

Did you know that Han Solo rides a giant falcon named Marky Mark and he controls it by reaching underneath the chest and yanking on either its right or left nipple, depending on which direction he wants to go? Han Solo uses a blaster because lightsabers are for hippies. When Han Solo found out that Luke Skywalker had kissed his own sister, he made up for it by kissing everyone's sister. Four years later, my sister is still smiling.

Even though nearly everything you need to know about life can be learned by studying Han Solo, we'll still look at a few other things, too. In the second week we'll cover the Greek philosophers, Elvis and modern plumbing. We'll also teach an alligator to hum samurai movie titles and watch plenty of Golden Girls episodes. Classes will conclude when we have destroyed everything anyone has ever held sacred and we transform ourselves into pure light that rides us all the way across the universe.

Students should pack a lunch.

Nubile Tortoise Trampoline Striptease

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You ever go to a party and someone gasps and then you look down and realize that you've completely forgotten to wear any pants or underwear? You definitely don't want this to happen, and especially not at your Granny's 100th birthday party, around fifty or so of her best friends at the retirement home. However, even worse is when they mistake your micropenis for an outie belly button and they poke it and go "boop!" and then give you a quarter.

That day, I left the place with over five hundred quarters.

What to do with that sudden windfall? Invest it, of course! And I found the perfect thing to put my money in: a trampoline tortoise! Not literally, of course, we wouldn't want the little guy to get all weighed down and not be able to bounce around anymore. No, we're putting this shit on YouTube. My friend Bobby, who found the little guy wandering around his back yard the other day, has agreed to let me share in the profits if I toss in some cash for the little guy's funeral. And he's so cute! He holds this little umbrella with his tail and he wears a tophat and says things like "Gee Whiz!" and "Motorboat my marmalade!" We figure he's bound to keel over and drop dead any moment now, and when it does we'll be the only people with exclusive video footage. Zoops! I figure we'll make about $364,843 in revenue, so I'll definitely make my money back. If not, it's back to the retirement home for a few more quarters!

Who Are The Daisy Kids?

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A new band? A crew of interdimensional beer pong champions? Psychedelic rockin' dance musicians gone completely mad? We have very little information to go on at this point, but what we do know is that this is a collaboration between Daisy Berkowitz and THEE PAUSE. It is, if nothing else, guaranteed to be just a little mind-blowing. Here's what they have to say for themselves at their official site:

TRack Race fans know all about the glittering gold sonics that await them whenever the guerilla game is on. Presence of The Daisy Kids is similar and different at the same time - like all humanity. You have heard the past before. NOW hear it again in the future. The lysergic experience ages well for those possessing fine camp fire wine and song. If you remember the Americana TV phrase that preys "stay tuned" - then do so.

Adventures In Self Lobotomy

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For some reason, the government frowns on self-lobotomies. It's not safe, they say. You're scooping your brains out with a rusty spoon, they say. You left your skull cap on the floor and your cat's sitting in it, they say.

All true. But it was the only solution. You see, I write the copy for the covers of those tabloids you see near the checkout line of nearly every supermarket in America. The other day, I wrote the title of an article that featured Kim Kardashian, who's gained a few pounds as a result of being pregnant. It read: "Retarded Whale Beaches Itself On The Streets Of New York." A tad harsh maybe, and I'll admit that the first thing that came to mind after writing it was that after work I should ejaculate into a hooker's ear. But the second thing that came to mind was that I just might be exposing children to morally bankrupt messages simply because they're accompanying their parents to the grocery store.

This was bad. I was starting to develop a conscience, which is a deadly thing in my line of work. Self-lobotomy seemed like the only sane option. So one night, after letting a hooker shit in my ear, I went home and did what I felt like I needed to do.

It's not all bad, of course. Nowadays, I take pleasure in little things like ejaculating into my ear, coloring the walls with crayon and re-watching Saved By The Bell. Best of all, I've been doing some of my best work at the magazine. We've just gotten some exclusive photos of Gwyneth Paltrow sneaking a few bites from a cupcake. The caption's going to read "Beautiful Actress Slowly Morphing Into A Cankle-Faced Blob." It just might be my masterpiece.

Revenge Of The Mullet People

By the age of thirteen, I had matured into a fully-functional cyborg entity named the Crystaline Cupcake. I was supposed to be programmed to keep America safe from the Mole People. Turns out there was a mix up at the factory and I was actually programmed to destroy all the mullet people. As a result, the entire town of Corner, Alabama was wiped off the map.

Well, either way, I was good at my job. Too good. They found me, man. Drink your milk, kids, but sometimes even strong bones will only get you so far in this world. Nothing can protect you from the foul stench of a Muskrat Bomb. You can't wash the smell away, even if you use plenty of SPAM. It's there forever. You'll never have friends again. Only ostriches will accept your company, and then only after you've given them a perm and loaned them the first season of 21 Jump Street. They think that Johnny Depp guy is just oh so dreamy. And who can blame them?

I just can't rid myself of the desire to destroy mullets. I have my scissors at the ready. I linger, sad and despondent, outside monster truck rallies, Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts and Waffle Houses all over this great nation of ours. I've even considered visiting my Aunt Betty in that women's prison. But it's no good. I have Muskrat Bomb flashbacks. Every time I hear someone fart, I take cover immediately. I live in the shadow of despair. My soul weeps.

Granny's New Hobby

When I asked Granny where she was going the other night and she answered, “Baby Fight Club,” I was horrified. Images of toddlers being tossed into a flaming barbed-wire cage and gnawing at each other’s flesh danced around my head. However, that wasn’t where Granny was going. Turned out she was into something much worse.

No actual babies are involved in Baby Fight Club. Instead, senior citizens get together in an abandoned warehouse where they drink themselves silly and get totally nekkid except for an oversized diaper. Then they rub peanut butter all over themselves and proceed to get into the most brutal tickle fights this far east of the Mississippi. 

I can see all sorts of terrible things happening here.

Not that I have much room to talk. I was once involved with a group of Swedish performance artists who were working on a way to give everyone in the world an extra toe. Unfortunately, it would be someone else’s toe. Hey, live and learn, right?

Except I didn’t. A little later I joined a group that was responsible for sucking the entire state of Texas into a black hole. Ooops. True, it took several weeks before anyone noticed, but it wasn’t one of my finer moments.

I know Granny wants to prove that she’s as tough as she was in the 60’s, when she went on that chainsaw murder spree. But she’s older now. I’m worried she might have lost some of her killer instinct. 

Well, at least she’s still active.

Welcome to Happy Village, Where Hugs Are Free!

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Welcome to Happy Village, where hugs are fee. Did I say fee? Well, I meant that we'll murder you with a chainsaw as soon as you enter the gates. For a fee. Not too unreasonable, right? You just walk through the gate and a happy ticket taker named McGreasy tips his top hat to you and pinches you on the ass. Not that he's a pervert, mind you. It's just that the tapeworms have gone to his brain and he can't tell the difference between a soft tushy and a pelican having a seizure. And everyone knows that the only way to stop a pelican seizure is to pinch you on the ass.

You ever shaved a gorilla with purple Jello? Of course not. It doesn't work. You can't shave a gorilla unless you tie it down first. And what would your mother think if she saw a gorilla tied to your bed? You should put more thought into these kinds of things. And call your mother.

And while you're at it, maybe you could take her to Happy Village, where we'll shower you with gifts. And that's not all we'll shower you with. You wanna shower with a goat? No problem! How about a jar of marmalade? Can do! And why aren't you calling your mother?