These Hors D’œuvres Suck

I’ve been scraping my brain all week for wild Thanksgiving memories to write about, and I’ve come to the conclusion that every Turkey Day I’ve ever had has been pretty routine. Grandma never denounced my “alternative lifestyle,” the bird never tasted like homeless ball sack marinated in raw sewage, the carving knife was never plunged into another relative’s flesh with fervent glee by Crazy Uncle Nursing Home. It’s all been very average November feast junk. Stuffing, football, the occasional viewing of Uncle Buck.

The only outstanding T-Day visions I could trudge up are the time I announced over dinner that I had a canker sore (Grandpa laughed pretty hard at that one) and the time I couldn’t have chocolate soda with dinner because my friend’s aunt had thrown it all away (shoulda reserved a can earlier in the week). So if you’re looking for a nice serving of pain and humiliation with your cranberry sauce, go someplace else.

I took down my “Best of JG2Land 2009″ post because I was afraid it was a tad premature. I might write something amazing in December. You never know.

It’s John Larroquette’s birthday today. He’s 62. According to his Twitter (yes, John Larroquette has a Twitter), JL “will not sleep until this night eschews the sun in memory of my mother who toiled and fought for 24 hours to eject the parasitic boarder she had housed for 9 months. And once freed from the burden of childbirth rejoiced and devoted her life to mine.” I hate that the guy from “Night Court” is a better writer than me.

You know what else I hate? My inability to determine whether Danko Jones is ball-smashingly awesome or totally fucking stupid. They dance that line like Nutcracker Fairies. Danko J personify the generic “RAWK, LOL!!1″ mentality championed by people like Jack Black and career “Guitar Hero” players, yet they manage to kick up enough flavor to get stuck in my head even when I’m not really paying attention. To wit, “Code Of The Road,” from the band’s last full-length:

Musically, this song is so good it makes me want to break a beer bottle over my mailman’s head. However, Danko Jones commit a cardinal rock sin here (for me, anyway) by singing about “life on the road.” SO MANY songs have already been written about touring in a rock n’ roll band. It’s one of the ultimate clichés. Rollin’ all over the map, livin’ outta hotels, rockin’ out every night, missin’ your woman…ugh, it’s like one giant sausage fart. When I get rich enough, I’m going to release a compilation called Touring: Never Boring (Except When A Band Is Singing About It). The tracklisting will look something like this:

“Touring” by the Ramones
“The Killing Road” by Megadeth
“Code Of The Road” by Danko Jones
“No Sleep Til Brooklyn” by the Beastie Boys
“Wherever I May Roam” by Metallica
“(We Are) The Road Crew” by Motörhead
“We’re The Replacements” by They Might Be Giants
“Something Wrong” by Screeching Weasel
“Magical Mystery Tour” by the Beatles
“The Road” by Tenacious D
“Satellite” by the Sex Pistols
“Another State Of Mind” by Social Distortion
“Turn The Page” by Bob Seger
“We’re An American Band” by Grand Funk Railroad
“Travelin’ Band” by Creedance Clearwater Revival
“On The Road Again” by Willie Nelson
“Homeward Bound” by Simon & Garfunkel
“Driving On 9″ by the Breeders

But I digress. Danko Jones needs to stop crossing my circuits with their shtick. Either be totally lame, or make the jump to complete greatness.

Did “doing the laundry” ever catch on as slang for smoking pot? I ask because a few of my friends in high school tried to start that up, but I’m not really connected to the drug culture so I don’t know if it caught on. I guess I can check by going up to Harlem and asking assorted people on the street if they have any “laundry” they can sell me so I can go home and “do it.” In my “washing machine” (that’s slang for bong, bro!!!!). Just for the record, yes, these high school friends listened to copious amounts of rap metal.

Hey, guess what? I think the Them Crooked Vultures album is kinda boring.

Let’s start another paragraph with a question: you know how Prince is all cool and uppity and acts like he’s too good for everything? Well, whenever such thoughts cross your mind and bring you down, just remember the Artist once appeared on an episode of “Muppets Tonight” in 1997. He even appeared in a “Hee-Haw” spoof with Gonzo:

See? Prince does have a sense of humor!

I need to go find some turducken. Who has John Madden’s cell phone number?

Haikus About Ex-Girlfriends

Birthday joy ruined
biography of RuPaul
all you got me? Damn.

Diet pills and booze
watching you turn green was cool
just like a mood ring!

I’m sorry I laughed
when that guy spit up on you
guess that was a sign

Part of my soul died
every time you dragged me to
see the Aqua Bats

How could you dump me?
What, you only like guys
who have homes and jobs?

Another night spent
watching High School Musical
you look old for nine

I’m sorry I lied
about knowing Bob Barker
still amazed that worked

Selected Titles From The Box Of VHS Porn My Roommate Keeps In The Living Room

Pump Action
No Director Credited
Starring: Beau Beaumont, Cody Vance, Hurt Rogers
1997
Notes: Cody Vance is the name of my personal injury attorney. I don’t think it’s the same guy.

Fire Island Cruising
Directed by Michael Lucas
Starring: Michael Lucas, Chad Hunt, Phillipe Siren
2000
Notes: Spawned at least seven sequels (I’m serious).

Total Corruption
Directed by Chi Chi La Rue
Starring: Damien, Hank Hightower, Donnie Russo
1993
Notes: Donnie Russo did all his own stunts.

Black Balled 2
Directed by Chi Chi La Rue
Starring: Luke Savage, Winston Love, Drakkar
1998
Notes: Drakkar also appeared in Blacker The Berry, Sweeter The Juice and Dog Bone that year (again, totally serious).

Alas, I could find no info on the fifth selection, Luke’s Story 3, not even on the Internet Adult Film Database. However, I can tell you the first porno I ever saw was called Naughty Girls Need Lovin’ Too and it had the best theme song. I should really write a whole post about it.

Paul Blart Haiku

So bad it’s good? No.
So bad it’s incredible.
you win this round, Kev.

Say, Didn’t You Get Your Finger Caught In A Folding Chair Once?

Why yes, yes I did! I even had to go the hospital to get it removed. Thanks for bringing it up!

Sixth grade chorus class was remarkably boring, lacking such a severe amount of fun and whimsy I would place it behind competitive weather stripping and unpaid snail wrangling on the list of activities I enjoy. We never got to sing anything fun, like “The Humpty Dance” or “2 Legit To Quit.” Heck, we rarely even sang full songs – most of the time, we just stood around shouting repetitive vocal exercises like “Bagel With Cream Cheese” in pinched and flat falsettos. Our teacher claimed this would somehow improve our prepubescent voices. I can’t speak for the rest of the class, but at the end of the day, I was no closer to being Michael Bolton than when I woke up. Repeatedly warbling “Bagel with cream cheese!” for thirty minutes a day just made me hate bagels.

On top of that, we were not afforded the luxury of desks in chorus class. Instead, we had the cold, grey reality of folding chairs, the cushion-free metal kind that reminded one of Dwight Eisenhower or the Industrial Revolution. With no flat surface to rest our hands or graffiti juvenile message on, we were a restless bunch. Some busied their appendages by making paper airplanes or committing petty crime (I still haven’t forgiven the kid who sat next to me, J. Shickles, for taking a pair of sewing scissors and cutting the straps right off my L.L. Bean backpack; those things cost money, you airbrushed Wolf shirt-wearing asshole). Me, I probably sat around doodling pictures of Norman Schwarzkopf in my Trapper Keeper, hoping this damn Gulf War would end sometime before Damon Wayans left “In Living Color.”

One day, after our teacher had forced us to slide our chairs all over creation to “get the best sound possible” out of a room of tone-deaf twelve year olds, I decided to explore the underside of my seat to see if there was any dried gum or boogers I could smear into J. Shickles’ hair. I found nothing but a metal loop with a hole just big enough for my right middle finger. Of course I slid it through, although I don’t think I quite realized the sexual connotations of such an act. At that age, I still firmly believed the female vagina was akin to the creature in Alien, shooting out from between its host’s legs with a slimy hiss and enveloping anything that dared get close to it. I was a pretty dumb kid.

Moriarty to my Holmes.

After a few minutes, I decided it was time to free my writing hand so I could scribble down something completely inane, like “Joey B. has the AIDS” or “Megadeth rocks and you know it!!!!” Imagine my fears when my joint would not pass back through the hole in question! How could this be? I struggled for a few minutes, desperate to show this hole what for. Remembering an old episode of “MacGuyver,” I theorized shoving more of my finger into the hole and attempting to quickly extract it would probably work.

Wrong.

The metal loop now grasped my chubby digit at the base, just above the knuckle, and there was absolutely no give. It was jammed in there like Silly Putty. This is when the real fear began. I could feel my flesh changing color and slightly swelling. Blood was being cut off. The chair was attempting to fell my favorite instrument for picking my nose and flipping the bird! Action had to be taken immediately. I raised my left hand. The teacher called on me, and I attempted to stand up. I could only get about half way. Hunched over like Quasimodo, I explained the situation at hand.

“My finger is stuck in this chair. I need to go to the nurse.”

There was a moment of brief silence before the class broke into insane laughter. During that hush, you could see a collective look of confusion and disgust about the room. Everyone had been waiting for the first character-destroying moment of the 1990-91 school year. Some thought it would come from the Kid Who Wore Earplugs The Size Of Baby Carrots & Always Wore Track Suits. Others kept their eye on the Kid Who Clogged, certain that at some point he would spill his lunch all over his Z Cavariccis and begin bawling like Sally Field. Alas, those kids managed to keep their stupidity in check (that year, at least) while I found myself mired in possibly the biggest inaugural goof East Ridge Middle had ever seen. I can’t even think of anything that compares (not even the Kid Who Fainted During German Class In Seventh Grade Because He Couldn’t Handle Conjugating The Verb “Bekommen”).

I was quickly ushered out of the chorus room and to the school nurse, who seemed annoyed by my presence. I can understand that – I’m sure she had legitimately sick children to deal with, and here was Johnny Finger Chair, who really only needed a hacksaw and a smack on the head. Sadly, the janitors all refused to wield any kind of tool to free my trapped digit. This is not because they were pussies – we would later learn that the janitors had been instructed before the start of that school year to saw every loop off the chorus room folding chairs so nothing like this would happen. Lazy and belligerent (what middle school janitor worth his salt isn’t?), the custodial staff ignored this administrative demand. No kid is that dumb, they surely thought.

They hadn’t met Jim Greene.

Confronted with the scenario they assumed would never happen, the shocked janitors plead whatever amendment you plead when a kid gets his finger caught in a folding chair and refused to get involved. Could we have sued the school over this incident? Sure, if my family had not already been involved in a crazy lawsuit at the time. Our legal resources allocated elsewhere, East Ridge Middle got away with making me look the fool when it was really their fault. I’ll get them back one day, perhaps when I’m a famous author and they ask me to come dedicate the new branch of their library named in my honor. I’ll show up without cuff links or a belt, which will embarrass them to no end, I’m sure. Oh yes, my poor dress habits will shame you back to the stone age, you evil institution of tween education!

He’s smiling because that bottle is filled with dirty mop water.

Anyway, my mother eventually showed up at school and made the executive decision to call an ambulance. I’ll never forget being wheeled out the front doors of the school, the chair resting on my lap, mere moments after lunch ended. A crowd of eight graders surrounded me as if I were a reclusive, terminally ill celebrity. They ogled me as if I were Garbo; I could look not a one of them in the eye. In the ambulance, they strapped me down to the gurney and merely reseted the chair on top of me. Every time the meat wagon took a sharp turn, the chair slid off me, twisting my now purple finger into even more pain. To his credit, the driver soothed my pain by cranking up some Kansas and tapping along on the steering wheel. Nothing heals you faster than “Dust In The Wind.”

At Danbury Hospital, I was greeted by a blood-soaked doctor not unlike Dave Foley in those “Kids In The Hall” skits. He greased my finger up with some alien gel, whipped out a tiny saw, and finally liberated me from my metal captor. By this point, I was numb to everyone’s laughter and smirks. I just wanted to go home, sit in bed with my bandaged finger, and read the latest issue of Cracked. Sadly, my mother was a proponent of tough love. She drove me right back to school, where I entered my sixth period art class to a wave of sarcastic claps and laughter.

From that day on, my fate was sealed as one of the biggest losers in all of Connecticut. No one ever let me forget that a piece of furniture had been my Waterloo. Girls refused to talk to me. I was picked last for every team in gym for fear I’d accidentally be immobilized by the bleachers. Even my friends ragged on me, and these were people who spent all their free time collecting comic books and watching “Facts Of Life” reruns. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when people who aspire to be as cool as Mindy Cohen are giving you a hard time.

She was our Fonzie, even though Jo was more Fonzie-like.

Thankfully, my family moved to Florida after the ninth grade, where I was afforded to opportunity to start anew. The chair incident was kept secret as I learned to play guitar and developed my persona as semi-class clown. By senior year, I was actually going on dates that weren’t cruel pranks, and I didn’t have to beg anyone to sign my yearbook. People volunteered. I had succeeded. My legacy was no longer a hospital visit as a result of too much finger exploration.

So my advice to any of you youngsters who’ve recently experienced a major social embarrassment? Convince your parents to move. Send your father’s résumé to as many different time zones as possible. Sabotage all your mother’s real estate deals. Tell them you’ll become a “cutter” unless the family immediately relocates to Beaver Falls, MN. Do whatever it takes to run away from your problem. Sure, starting over won’t be easy or necessarily all that fun, but take solace in the fact no one will call you “The Fartmaster” or “Rhino Tits” ever again (unless God really has it out for you).

The Chuck Biscuits Death Hoaxer: Chuck Biscuits?

Here’s some food for thought: did Chuck Biscuits himself perpetrate the entire Great Chuck Biscuits Death Hoax of 2009, chuckling under his breath as he hosed me for six months and then laughing heartily as the world mourned his passing two weeks ago?

I have no idea, but that very notion was suggested to me by someone close to Chuck the Monday after the whole mess erupted. This particular person, someone who has known Chuck since long before he was in Danzig, told me that biscuitschuck@hotmail.com is in fact the drummer’s personal e-mail address, that the text of the messages I was sent match Chuck’s writing style, and that it was absolutely him in the picture I posted back in May. Their theory as to why Chuck would do something like this? They figured it was just his super crazy way of reinserting himself into the pop culture landscape.

While this was interesting and somewhat relieving to hear, I took it with a grain of salt. This person could be hoaxing me as well, I thought. So I decided to sit on this strange theory for a little while and see what developed.

It’s been over a week, and guess what? Nothing has happened. No hoaxers have come forward, no one has pointed me in the direction of other possible suspects, Chuck himself has not released any kind of statement – heck, Chuck hasn’t even e-mailed me to complain about my “lousy journalism”/ask where I was getting my info from/figure out who was impersonating him and his wife. If I were in his position, I’d really want to figure out who was using my identity and why they were sending pictures of me around and why they were pretending I was dying of throat cancer. If biscuitschuck@hotmail.com is Chuck’s address, if that picture is him and he didn’t do this, well, that’s pretty worrying RE: personal security.

It also strikes me as rather curious that the person who confirmed Chuck’s non-death to the world was, in the end, his estranged brother Bob and not himself or his wife, Lauren. The fact that I knew Lauren’s name, the fact that she was the person I was supposedly receiving updates on Chuck’s health (and the news of his eventual “death”) from, is what spurned Bob to drive several hours from his home in Canada to Seattle to investigate his brother’s alleged passing. Below is a copy of the e-mail Bob sent me regarding these facts:

Lauren, whose name I was protecting when this story broke because I knew it was the one true and legitimate piece of personal Chuck Biscuits info I had, only mailed me once about all this, from a different address than the one I had previously received messages from. All she asked was why I thought Chuck was dead. I explained my side of things to her and never heard back from her. Below, a copy of that correspondence:

Sure, other noted sources eventually piped up concerning Chuck’s undoubted alivedness, like his former band mates Joe Keithley (publicly) and Eerie Von (via e-mail to me), but doesn’t it seem kind of odd that Chuck’s wife would contact me and, rather than confirm that her husband is alive, ask me why I think he’s dead? This is the guy’s wife – surely she knows if he’s alive or dead. Unless, perhaps, she was in on the hoax?

Now, look – I’m not saying there’s a specific way for people to handle their own death hoax. I’m also not saying Chuck Biscuits and/or his wife definitely did this shit; the only source I have on that is off the record, my personal rock n’ roll Deep Throat, if you will. However, I am saying there’s a lot of stuff here that doesn’t quite add up, and I don’t think it’s completely outrageous to suggest Chuck Biscuits may have somehow been involved in this odd publicity stunt.

For the sake of posterity, below I’ve posted screen caps of three of the original e-mails I received from “Chuck”/”Lauren” before “he” faked his death and then reemerged (apologies for the blurriness and poor cropping; I failed Photoshop 101):

The “inquiries” mentioned in the second e-mail refer to a series of interview questions I had sent “Chuck.” Did Chuck Biscuits fake his death to avoid completing this interview? Let’s remember – this man collects cereal and retained the surname “Biscuits” when he joined Danzig.

Stay tuned for any further developments, folks. Thanks to everyone who has supported me during this utterly bizarre incident. To those who still think this is just another example of some uneducated blogger not getting his facts straight or some wanna-be Internet celebrity fabricating a story for blog hits, I really don’t know what to say. Jon Gosselin is way higher than Chuck Biscuits on Google Trends, and if you can figure out the current address/place of employment/cell phone provider/shoe size of another rogue 1980s rock drummer (say Joey Image or Arthur Googy), I will personally buy you dinner at Arby’s.

Chuck Biscuits Is Alive

And it seems it was all just a cruel, cruel hoax: legendary hard rock drummer Chuck Biscuits, whom this blog eulogized Tuesday after receiving a death notice that allegedly came from his wife, is apparently still among the living.

“I just wanted to let you know that Chuck [Biscuits] is alive and as well as can be expected,” said Bob Montgomery, Chuck’s brother, in an e-mail sent to the author earlier today. “I drove to his home in Seattle [from Canada] to confirm that fact.”

Suspicions rose almost immediately after heavy metal website Blabbermouth.net picked up the news of Chuck’s death from this blog yesterday and made it viral, as Bob and at least one of Chuck’s former band mates had heard nothing of the former Danzig drummer’s passing. After a brief e-mail exchange with JG2Land, Bob Montgomery decided to physically visit his brother to find out the truth once and for all.

“The only reason I put any stock in the Internet rumours was because [James Greene, Jr.] used Chucks wife’s name [in private e-mails],” Bob wrote after his visit to Chuck’s house. “Otherwise, I would have filed it under the African ruler looking for money to enlarge his penis file. I am really curious as to who’s been sending [him] this info.”

In May of 2009, JG2Land received an e-mail that ostensibly came from Chuck Biscuits, who appeared to be using an e-mail address that bore his wife’s real name. The message, which was a response to an article JG2 had authored for Crawdaddy.com entitled “An Open Letter To Chuck Biscuits,” found “Chuck” announcing that he was “awake and rotting twice to the gut in the land of flanneled, tree-huggin’ bunny-fuckers.” The drummer also offered himself up for an interview.

Subsequent communication with this apparently false Chuck Biscuits revealed that he was afflicted with throat cancer and could no longer speak. In July, a message signed with the initials of Chuck’s wife was sent that announced the founding D.O.A. member was in the hospital, his condition deemed “inoperable and terminal according to his care givers” and that “alternative therapies” were being explored. Communication dried up until October 26, when an e-mail was sent announcing that Chuck had passed two days earlier:

“In response to the inquires, thank you for all the support. Chuck did not survive his battle with throat cancer. He passed surrounded by his family on 10/24/09.”

It is currently unknown who exactly is responsible for perpetrating this hoax, nor what their motivations were.

In response to the avalanche of criticism, comments, and questions JG2Land is now currently receiving thanks to this debacle, I wish to state the following: it stings bitterly to know that my communication with Chuck Biscuits, a talent I have long admired, and his wife was all a scam. After all the highs and lows I felt on this six month journey, to have it end like this is just sickening.

I never had any reason to distrust the people in question. No serious flags were raised. Who would pretend to be a dying hard rock drummer for a half a year? There was no monetary gain, and I have no journalistic stature. There seemed to be no angle for this, other than to hurt and embarrass me (mission accomplished). Thus, I took these people at their word.

When I received the e-mail about Chuck’s passing, it hit me in the gut. I was reeling. I decided to write a succinct but heartfelt blog announcing the news Tuesday and that would be the end of it. The news would get around and the world could mourn the loss of the best hard rock drummer of the 1980s. That this could all be some insane prank was the furthest thing from my mind.

I can understand why some people would want to try to ruin my reputation or make me look like a complete asshole lacking journalistic integrity, but I cannot fathom why anyone would want to trick thousands of Chuck’s fans into a false state of grief. That is the real crime here. Reading some of those early comments about fans’ memories of Chuck is especially heart-breaking now. Were these people laughing at those memories? Because I was fighting back tears.

Shame on the party responsible for this. You hurt too many good and innocent people, including Chuck’s close friends/family.

Although I flunked out of the journalism program at the University of Central Florida, I know the rules and I follow them. I fact-check to the best of my ability. I never falsify quotes unless I’m writing an obvious parody or joke. I do thorough research and I try to protect my sources because I don’t entirely believe in this burgeoning “show us everything you got” style of Gen Y reporting. If I had any reason to believe the “Chuck Biscuits” I was talking to was full of shit, I would have put him through the wringer.

That said, I think it’s rather telling that Bob Montgomery couldn’t comment on the state of his own brother without driving several hours to see him in the flesh. The real Chuck Biscuits fell off grid a decade ago, and he’s clearly worked a bit to have things stay that way. I’m not knocking that at all. I’m just saying…I couldn’t verify anything about the real Chuck Biscuits a year ago when I began research for a retrospective piece about his career (which eventually morphed into the much shorter and tongue-in-cheek “Open Letter” piece). One person mailed me back. It took a fake death story to get anyone to confirm that he lived in Seattle.

I’m sorry I unknowingly spread this horrible lie. I apologize to the world, Chuck’s family, Chuck’s friends, and especially Chuck.

P.S. – Concerning Chuck’s contributions to Tougher Than Leather – again, researched to best of my ability, and if you’re familiar with the album and Chuck’s playing style, there’s no reason to seriously question it. Of course it could be a lie, but it could also be 100% true.

That’s Like Putting A Bob’s Big Boy In The Kremlin

There’s a Checkers in Brooklyn now. That’s like putting a Hardee’s on the moon! Well, sort of. Anyway, I command you to read the story I wrote about the Checkers Gotham invasion for New York Press. I assure you I take no shots at Klosterman in it.

Relevent YouTube clip – Rap Cat:

I never grow tired of that song.

An Open Letter To Richard Heene

Dear Rapscallion,

So there I was, mere moments away from setting my homemade submarine adrift in the Colorado River. I had my iPhone in hand, with a 9 and a 1 already punched in. The cat was safely stashed away at the home of a fellow Taco Johns employee – I had literally nothing to worry about as I prepared to shove the tiny vessel that had cost me $17,000 (welding lessons included) away from the shore line. My plan to send the media on the wildest of proverbial goose chases while simultanously smearing my delicious yolk all over America’s gullible, swine-like face was almost complete.

Then, for some reason, before I kicked my creation off and dialed in that last 1 to frantically explain that my little Woogums was potentially trapped in an air-tight vessel headed straight for the most dangerous stretch of rapids in Kremmling County, I decided to eat a bran muffin from the glove box of my 1971 Dodge Dart. As I sat in the driver’s seat and scarfed down my less-than-appetizing snack, I scanned CNN.com to see what was going on in the world. What headline should greet me in a matter of seconds?

“SIX YEAR OLD TRAPPED IN RUNAWAY HOT AIR BALLOON.”

I almost choked to death on my incredibly dry muffin. The audacity! For the next twelve hours, I sat in my beloved Dart and watched the whole thing unfold. I couldn’t believe my eyes. When had you been in my house? When had you seen my elaborate blueprints? They boasted a littany of ideas, including some sort of helium-based dirigible, very much like the one Wolf Blitzer was currently drooling over.

I was flabbergasted. Clearly my Brinks home security system had failed me for the last time. And to use a child, Mr. Heene, a real human child, rather than a cat! Well sir, that was unprecedented.

I applaud your ingenuity, sir, but I scorn your face just the same. I am now remarkably in debt with absolutely nothing to show for it. There is no way my wife is coming back to me now. You are a foul trickster and I shall determine how you breached my inner sanctum if it’s the last thing I do. May you rot in the self-imposed prison of reality television you seek to dominate.

Yours in pain and humiliation,

J. Greene II

This Is Serious Horror Business

Hey, you should read this article I wrote in defense of the Misfits’ Famous Monsters. Snippet: “Famous Monsters may never ascend to the lofty heights of the band’s initial Danzig-helmed material, but…it occupies its own acre of provincial awesome in a town where most people fear to tread (read: Post-Reagan horror punk).” Yes, this is a companion piece to the defense of American Psycho I wrote last year.

Thirsty for more Misfits-related scriblings? Click here to read about my unimpressive visit to the band’s original stomping grounds of Lodi, NJ. You could also take a look at a somewhat controversial piece I wrote about the night Danzig got his clock cleaned. Also, who could forget the amazing JG2Land blog post concerning five “classic” Misfits songs I could completely live without? I’m tellin’ ya, you can’t go wrong with any a’ these bastards!

Now remember, all you motherfuckers better speak to the devil, or else Danzig’s gonna make another techno album.