A Danger to Your Fragile Psyche, plus Awesome Music

Aparrently, my little bitch box can warp the minds of children and is the vice tearing this country apart. I am proud.

I hope that was a big enough attention grabber to get you to read the rest of this post, because I have stumbled upon something awesome.

http://www.cicadacom.com/ is the personal website of a musical genius, Judson Cowan. And I don't use that word lightly. He's done 16-bit concept albums for video games that don't exist, he's done a capella remixes of The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Ace of Bass, Coolio, Cake, A-Ha, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song, and others. He's got remixes out the a-hole. He has also been prolific in his own original stuff, which bring to mind what Ben Gibbard's side project The Postal Service would sound like if Ben Gibbard had talent, and liked him some Depeche Mode.

It just really kicks ass, and in a testament to just how awesome he is, all of it is available completely free to anyone with a media player.

I love you Judson Cowan. I love you to death.

Greatest Roles in Voice Acting (ever)

Voice actors have it hard. Their anonymity is directly proportional to their ability. Their job is to not get noticed. The less you realize that the voice pumping through your speakers emanates from a source more human than the Princess of Fairyland, the better. To honor these individuals, I have decided to compile a list of voice actors and the roles they played that I personally feel are just plain awesome.


5. Steven Jay Blum as Spike Spiegel




Cowboy Bebop may just be one of the greatest animes ever adapted for American release. Kick ass action, kick ass music, kick ass stories, and major kick ass voice acting. Props go all around to the crew on this, as every single one of them pulled out great performances, but Blum manages to just nail Spike. I've seen other animes with Blum in the cast, and he doesn't seem too versatile in his voice work. He's got one delivery, and he knows how to deliver it. And that delivery just so happens to fit the character of Spike just fine. With equal sounds of late night soul tunes radio host, apathetic punk ass teenager, and monotone intimidation, the voice doesn't just sound like Spike, it is Spike.



4. Tom Kenny as Spongebob Squarepants

Now, I can't stand spongebob. In fact, spongebob can go fuck himself in his ambiguous ass. He is one of those cultural icons that has an emphasis on the 'cult'. In a million years, aliens will sift through our civilization's ashes and find spongebob plushies, totems to a yellow and porous demi-god. But Kenny...fuck me man. I didn't know human vocal chords had the elastic fortitude to truly encapsulate the sound of three midgets burning in a fire. But he pulls it off. He's pulled it off for six seasons now. And any man that can create a voice that iconic, that annoying, that...amazing, deserves a little credit from the writhing masses that feed their money to the gaping maw of cartoon capitalism.

3. Jeremy Irons as Scar






Jeremy Irons is one of those Shakespearean actors that always gets cast as the bat shit loco sorcerer in any mid-budget fantasy bullshit blockbuster release that got shat out of the coiled intestine of hollywood. And he is awesome sauce incarnate. You may remember his role as Scar in the Lion King. Or, at least you remember his voice, as it most assuredly echoed in your darkest thoughts and chased you through your foulest dreams leaving your youth a twisted enigma of nightmares. Or maybe that is just me. Either way, Jeremy Irons is the fucking mother hardcore, and should be worshipped as such. If I ever make it big in in life, I will make a TV show called The Classics With Jeremy Irons, and all it will be is a mid-shot of Jeremy Irons reading the collected works of Shakespeare, H.P. Lovecraft, and Chuck Palahniuk. I would watch that show to death.



2. Kari Wahlgren as Haruko

Yes, that is actually a picture of Kari Wahlgren. Yes, she is super fucking hot. Yes, I was surprised too. Voice actors tend to be a group of people that embody a certain kind of fugly. They have faces made for radio. However, they consistently have an inner beauty so pure and bright, that one cannot resist their charms. Voice actors are like truffles, hard and crisp on the outside, but smooth and creamy on the inside. And although I would blow Billy West or Rob Paulson (his name is robert paulson, his name is robert paulson, his name is robert paulson...) just for a taste of that creamy nougat (ha! ha! double entendre), with Kari Wahlgren, one does not need to compromise. I mean c'mon, if I was a few years older I'd be all over that. Oh yeah, she's a real good voice actor too. She played Haruko in FLCL, and I honestly can't imagine a voice so perfectly fitted for a role. I mean, just listen man. That voice made me fall in love with a crazy manipulative space bitch. It may be the best voice ever. But, sadly, as awesome as it is, it is relegated to merely "the best female voice ever". Now the best voice ever, and damn, what a voice, is none other than the king pimp of the universe himself...

1. David Hayter as Solid Snake

Was there ever a doubt in your mind? With the exception of giant douche and relatively talented Tommy Talarico, everyone on the planet can acknowledge the fact that David Hayter created the Best Voice Ever when he took on the role of Solid Snake. Like Kari Whalgren, David is surprisingly do-able. Be you man, woman, animal, vegetable, or mineral, you have to admit that you would tap that. But what is striking about this man rests not in his loins, but in his throat. For you see, David Hayter has immaculate vocal chords, incapable of the guttural utterances we mortals have the gall to call speech. In eldrtich times, they rested in the throat of an Angel, the personal messenger of God. When Lucifer's pride railed against His throne, the Angel fell, and the heavenly speech that resided in him was gifted to a worthy human successor. That man was David Hayter, and he has deigned to let us simple wretches eavesdrop on the sounds of heaven. We shall erect monuments in his name, and buy Sony brand Playstation 3s when MGS4 comes out, all for a that trickle of beautiful noise.


Really Kickass Honorable Mention: Mike Patton as the Darkness


The Darkness is a game of cycles. Cycles of orgasmic pleasure and cycles of unparalled tedium. But through it all, you get to hear a voice that gurgles up from the pits of hell. The voice of the Darkness. If Hayter is heaven, then Patton is hell. Now, I'm a follower of the indie music scene, and have known about Patton's crazy vocal antics for quite some time. I thought it was interesting, but nothing special. Contrary to his horde of adoring fans, I don't think his stuff is anything to get your panties moist over. But his rendition of the Darkness in the video game of the same name is really amazing. Really really amazing. I would say 60 bucks is worth it just to hear his undulating pitch from gravely bass to tweaking treble. And, he hates wolfmother. So do I. It's good to have common ground.

Protect Yo'self 'Fore they Wreck Yo'self

The wild and wacky world of self-defense is...wild and wacky. With the exception of the ball kick, I don't believe many of these manuevers are what some may call, practical. But who can argue with sound effects? Bing bong Bing!

Requiem for a Nightmare

On the precipice of a new era, most feel obligated to look back, reflecting on their arduous journey. I too feel a pang for reflection. But most of these recollections stem not from reality, but are instead churned from a foundry that excretes experience coated in a sugar sweet film of lies. I, however, will not indulge in dereistic diabetes. I will recall naught but the truth. As such, I must put aside my endearing grandiloquence in favor of a much more blunt, vulgar vernacular. For what I have to say can only be said one way:

High School Fucking Sucks

Now, a catalogue of bullshit I will not miss:

Getting my stuff stolen.

Teachers less interested in the subject than I am.

Overachievers that overachieve for no rational reason whatsoever.

People writing "I Suck Cock" on my binder.

14 year-olds with breast implants.

Attendance officials drunk on power.

PE teachers (all of them).

Getting called a faggot by someone I have never seen before.

Getting called nigger.

Getting called chink.

Getting called spic.

Getting called kike.

Getting called dyke.

Getting called bitch.

Getting called any combination of the above (bitch-nigger, fag-kike, etc.)

Getting called a Jew though I am not Jewish, and do not understand why that is an insult.

Getting mocked by people less popular than I am for being a conformist.

Getting mocked by people more popular than me for being different.

Slashed tires.

Jamba juice on the windshield.

"I Suck Cock" written on the hood.

Girls that act like whores but get offended when you call them on it.

Guys that act like gangstas but get offended when you remind them how rich and white they are.

Black kids that act like gangstas even though their parents moved to the suburbs so they wouldn't have to experience the soul crushing poverty and violence of the ghetto.

People who say "playa" without being ironic.

People who over use the word "laid".

Listening in on a phone conversation and realizing that the guy sitting behind you has an STD, but he doesn't know it and likes to spit on people when they walk under awnings.

Listening to girls discuss how their vaginas wear down with usage.

That mother fucker with an A in the class but can't fucking spell "momentum".

Dumbasses taking AP classes and fucking up the learning curve.

Those cunts that just won't shut up about their jeans.

Conversations about jeans that extend beyond, "they are jeans."

People so psyched about the homecoming dance football prom school event.

Those Christians that make such a big fucking deal about how they pray in school, and how no one can stop them.

Those Muslims that make such a big fucking deal about how they pray in school, and how no one can stop them.

Kids from Iran talking about how awesome Iran is and how shitty America is while the only reason their parents moved here is because Iran is really shitty.

Those fucks that talk about how important the war in Iraq is, but won't enlist because "we all have our part to play, and mine is at home giving our troops the support they need" by working the cushy middle management job his dad gave him down at the office and boning the secretary with a soft spot for young ones.

That guy that talks about how important Christian Values are in this day and age while getting blitzed on the weekends and date raping some chick in the back of his Ford Explorer.

That chick that talks about how empowering it is to dress slutty and suck dicks, then complaining about how no one treats her with respect, even though she dresses slutty and sucks lots of dicks.

That chick that will not shut the fuck up about "baka neko" and thinks everything is totemo KAWAII! Is it? Is it fucking really?

That nerdy girl that decided it was time for an identity change, and that the best way to expedite the process was to get fucked by the whole football team.

That nerdy guy that decided to start wearing contacts, smoking pot, and donning shirts with Gibson Les Pauls emblazoned on the front, then deciding he was too cool to talk to nerds anymore.

Goth kids that rebel and express their identity by wearing the exact same clothes in the exact same shade of black and listening to the exact same music.

Emo kids. You know why.

And finally, I will not miss my parents telling me about how wonderful a time I am supposed to be having.

My Elders (re: arrogant old people on the cusp on death) regaled me with stories of youth and high school, and their deviances as incorrigible whipper snappers.

Fuck that shit.

They were probably the type of people that made high school the never-ending vista of madness that it was.

The institution itself is not demonic. In all its irony, the teachers were one of the things that made high school bearable. Rather, persecution buds in hearts of children.

My hypothesis: Hell is other people. My proof: High School.

There is only one conclusion I can draw as to why humans would create a malicious and arbitrary social hierarchy whose sole purpose is to subjugate people who dare express dissent: Humans are evil little fuckers.

If a goddamn meteor rends the planet, I will take solace in knowing that my death is just one for the billions of supercilious bipeds that made purgatory from paradise.

I'm not religious, but there is something to be said for the parable of Adam and Eve. Even if you give us the world a platter, we will go behind your back and fuck your wife. I know that bitch ate an apple, but I think infidelity gives more credence to the sentiment that humans are ungrateful imps.

I escaped the labyrinth of high school broken and shattered, with but tatters of my sanity still in tow. And I can't help but thank that engine of torment. Its gears and cogs ground me into a cynical husk of a creature, lacerations decorating me with marks of distinctions. I am the monster sown together with the sinews of spite, and my muscles are strung by the threads of malice. The product of all the hate and anguish, the alienation and the subjugation, the sum of a brutal 4 year expanse comprised of paranoia, fear, and dread is something greater than all these morbid parts put together. High school equals hope.

Hope, because I know that no matter what I do, or where I go, or how far I fall, I will never go back. I will never again have to look forward to the horrors of High School.

And that is something to look forward to.

The Morning After (the Zombie Apocalypse)

The meandering menace that had scoured my city had left just as slowly and unintelligibly as it came. I can still here the cries of those too preoccupied and inconvenienced to elude the encroaching horde. But they are no more.

Brains. "Why do they always want out brains?"

The boat rocked idly through the harbor, a deprave vista before me. Flames danced in the horizon, gnawing away at the spires and structures that once supported an American paradise. The water was sick with the bloated and dead, and one must watch their toes to avoid the casual nibbles that doom the soul.

My luscious companion grasps my manly physique, bringing me close. "We survived didn't we?"

Her eyes perfectly complemented her ethnicity. She was an amalgamation of every strain of hotness that blesses the weaker sex. I mean she was like, super hot.

"Yes." I said.

"Yes we…survived."

"We survived the Zombie apocalypse."

My shotgun was still warm from discharge, my long and slender shaft polished to a blinding sheen. My flowing man-locks wafted in the breeze, drenched in the stench of death and Loreal Just For Men Shampoo (designed specifically for the rugged intensity of a man's hair).

The silver blades of F-63 Fighter/Bomber/Ass-kicker assault recon aircraft still sliced through the sky, circling the carcass of a dead city. The military could destroy, but it couldn’t create.

Hotness brought me closer to her, "What do we do now?"

My steely gaze and pumped biceps embrace Sexylicious, "We make a new world, rising like a phoenix from the ashes…" The sun parts the clouds, as we are enveloped in a ray of heavenly light, "and we are going to have sex. We are going to have sex like you wouldn't believe."

Our lips meet, and for the first time in a long while, all is good.

Then zombie Orcas leap from the sea and tear her in twain, her torso spinning in the air like a whirly gig before another zombie Orca (or Shamu-Z, as he is know to friends) snatches her from the sky. The bite is so powerful that the blood pressure pops her like a balloon, showering me with the entrails of my beloved.

Two silicon implants plop into my hands.

I look at the neat little piles and I think:

Shit.

Like looking through a lens of madness.

(Note:This post used to contain a picture so graphic, its very existence broke the heart of God. Under pressure from the watchful eyes of the internet, I removed it, in the hopes in may redeem me on my deathbed. Instead here is a picture completely unrelated. The commentary goes on unfiltered.)



Oh shi- !

Holy fucking shit, did you see that? Goddamn…that was effing batshit loco. I didn't even know it could bend at an obtuse angle. Jesus Christ. Oh god. Oh god. How does that even end up like that? It's like he had to turn it sideways post penetration. Fuck me. Shit like this is why I refuse to wear briefs. What kind of depraved madmen…you just don't do things like that with combustibles. Incendiary devices don't belong there. They just don't. Goddammit. Sometimes I wonder about you people. You people are crazy. Fuck this wall. If you need me, I'll be wading knee deep through the blood n00bs in the intertron. I would ask what the hell is wrong with you, but I know it's contagious, so I must take my leave.

I don't care if it's fake...

...I just know that it's awesome.

SNAPE DIES SO HARRY CAN KILL VOLDEMORT!

TELL THA WURLD!

Prom Night Bites (Primadonnas Prevail)

Though I was forged in the dark recesses of the abyss long before time knew which way to flow, I have only come to take on physical form for 18 of your human years. As a sane entity of the cosmos, I was reticent to take part in the barbaric rituals native to American culture. One of these rituals, a mating dance, known in your language as "prom", is particularly vulgar, so much so that I was content in filling my Saturday night with hour long endeavors of commanding and conquering n00bs on the Xbox as opposed to prom's archaic entertainment. However, beseeched by a potent young female, I ventured deep into a lair that is nothing but a shrine to the profane and adolescent.

Despite its faults, I assumed that I could at least savor some primal pleasure from a night of juvenile delinquency and debauchery. How wrong I was.

Prom is a really boring orgy pulsing with people too pussy to just fuck in public.

The dance floor was unreasonably packed. So congested was the throbbing mass that a dude felt me up telling me how soft my hair was tiffany.

And I am so sick of grinding. My generation really needs to get a new dance move besides pretending to fuck a woman in the ass.

Here are some variations of grinding:
"The Pony"- Bend the girl over and grab her hair, as if the reins on a horse. Flail the free hand wildly above your head, shouting Yee-hah! Pound your dick against her ass.

"Sneaking a Snatch"- Grab the girl's hips and gyrate to together. When she looks back at you, glide the hand opposite the side she is looking and grab her snatch. Fiercely. This is important. She will be so surprised by the move that she will be too embarrassed to fight it off. Pound your dick against her ass.

"Moment of Clarity"- Stand befuddled in a crowd of humping teenagers and come to the terrible conclusion that this is exactly what Babylon looked like before God smote it off the face of the earth. Shed a tear. Pound your dick against her ass.

The least the DJ could do is play some music that doesn't make me wish for a hearing impairment. Now I'm not asking for Bach, or some Moonlight Sonata here. I get that there is a place for some Interpol and some Fucking Champs, and that it is not the place where people go to dance. However, I can't dance to music that sounds like it was written by an autistic child with a Casio that just learned what a double entendre was.

Some of the lyrics do seem reasonable as a double entendre. For example, the repeated refrain of "hot pocket rocket" obviously alludes to the male phallus, as opposed to a Jim Gaffigan comedy routine. He likes his Hot Pockets.

Laffy Taffy, although a tasty, sugary stretch, can indeed be perceived as a metaphor for the female buttocks.

However, what the fuck does "chicken noodle soup, with the soup on the side" mean? How is that sexual in any fucking context? Maybe if they said something like, "you got your big chicken in my soup," or, "I love it when you soup all over me." I can understand that. But they want the soup on the side…on the side…

One or two fun songs were played, but they were not enough to distract my imagination away from turning that writhing mass of polyester into a flaming hellscape with the strike of a match.

If I had not had the good company of my friends, I would have unleashed a dark carnivale on that dance floor. My ass would be all over the news, my mural of flesh, bones, and bloodshed given a gallery on every TV screen. Fortunately, my sanity is much more resilient than my impulse, and we are all spared the teenage holocaust.

Besides, who would be so pathetic as to tear up a prom? It's far too boring to dignify with a slaughter fest of that magnitude.

Now a spelling bee…that would be something of killing spree…hope they don't irritate me…or they might have to pay a mortal fee.

The fee of a Wii.

Damn I want one. I hear they provide an accurate simulation of bowling for those of us without the athleticism necessary to take part in such an intense sport.

The Apocalypse Has Been Televised

I have witnessed the fall of civilized society, and it is in the form of competitive spelling bees.

They are fucking loco.

A Child whose intelligence has far outgrown his wisdom (a dangerous combination) steps up to a microphone. He sweats and fidgets, taking deep, asthma breaths into his lungs.

The mike crackles with feedback.

The voice of God speaks: "Your word…is Hylocynth."

The Child's eyes go dim. "Can I have the root?"

God says of course of course, "the root is Latin, French, German, and English."

The Child mutters dammit under his runny nose. "Can you use it in a sentence please?"

God says certainly, "The Child lost the spelling bee because Hylocynth is a hard word to spell."

The Child says: "Shit"

Then he asks, "Can I have a definition?"

God says, "An aquatic marmot."

"Really?"

"No not really no."

"Okay", says the Child.

"Hylocynth…H-Y-L-O-S-Y-N-T-H?"

A bell rings and the child plunges into a circle of hell just below the pedophiles. Awkward.

God says, "Next."

The Children all have names that only a spelling bee champion could. Shlkdcvnykha. Xaieioeyh. Consonants that could crack teeth and vowels that would open wounds.

The parents don't seem to mind their Child's destructive determination.

Mary and David Dufrane love their child's precocious spelling proclivities.

"We let Jimmy do this because it makes him happy," she says, smile stale on her face, "and because it allows us to live out our own fantasies through him, as the once livid dreams of inspired youth have evaporated from our souls, leaving us dry and thirsty for validation. His success grants us this illusion of a dignified life."

David braces tighter against Mary's shoulder, as if it were the edge of a life boat, "Though we breathe, consume, and survive, we are dead inside. We died a long time ago. A long time…" David's eyes drift away. He has the look of a man that knows he has sunk too far from the surface to come up for air, drowning with contemptible complacency.

Jimmy steps up to the microphone, his glasses barely covering his naiveté.

God tightens his collar, "Your word…" Pages are flipped and numbers are checked, "is lilocaitenhe."

And the Child says: Shit.

One With the Machine

After much consternation, I have finally come to acquiesce my will to the intrawebs. For too long my realm of existence has been limited to the meaty exchanges of reality. But now, I enter the perversely expansive ambit of the internet. The machine. With a cable plugged into every orifice I find inoffensive. We live in an era of digital promiscuity, trading in privacy and intimacy for the brief satisfaction of intellecutal embrace. We are a generation of information whores, gladly putting out our most private, sensitive, tender, moist experiences to the orgy of the internet. We are voyeuristic sluts, getting our jollies out of our invasive entreaties into the lives of others. As prententious and egotistic as he was, Andy Warhol's prediction has come true, and everyone now has their 15 minutes of fame. But in the future, as conciousness homogenizes through instantaneous information exchange, we will kill for a simple 15 minutes of anonymity. To swear, to sigh, to shit without the prying eyes of the people, to keep the masses ignorant of our faults and follies, to merely maintain some semblance of individuality will be an ephemeral dream as unlikely as it is lucid.

And yet, here I am...making a little plot of the internet my own personal space to make myself public. How ironic.

For the anarchist I profess to be, this an awfully subversive act against my individuality. Too bad a public bitch box is more important to me that my own integrity.