Saturday, March 31, 2007


On Thursday, four metal bands descended upon Myrtle and, to paraphrase Parliament, "did it to us in our ear holes."

Gojira + Machine Head + Trivium + Lamb of God = "What? I can't hear you! I went to a metal show last night and my ears are still ringing! What? Hell Yeah, it kicked ass! Oh, you want me to stop yelling? Sure!"

All of the bands were phenomenal, but this isn't so much about the concert overall as a specific instance.

My favorite part was, without a doubt, Robb Flynn's intro to the Machine Head song "Aesthetics of Hate." If you're averse to profanity, here's where it gets hairy.

When Pantera's Dimebag Darrell was murdered in '04, crazy, wild-eyed, bad-ass, fucking-brutal metalheads the world over sat down, put their heads in their hands, and cried like small children. The same people you would suspect of having no concept of empathy or humanity were emotional wrecks for days on end, sometimes weeks. Hell, even now, over two years later, we all still get misty when anyone even mentions his name.

However, as Flynn would make abundantly clear, there were others who seemed to relish in the death of another human being and, in doing so, gravely insulted millions of people all over the world.

Just after Dime was killed, some low-life, scumbag, shite-cunt called William E. Grim, from an equally-scumbaggy conservative website, Iconoclast, wrote an article entitled "Aesthetics of Hate: R.I.P. Dimebag Abbott, Goodbye & Good Riddance."

Grim's pathetic ramblings (in a copied form) can be found
here (along with a good rebuttal); I can find little else about the article except for reactions against it.

He says early on, "I in no way want to engage in a blaming the victim scenario," then proceeds to do exactly that! He blames the "depravity, ugliness and ignorance of everything that heavy metal represents" for the murder, not, say, the fact that the murderer was a mentally ill psychopath.

So, tell me one thing, Oh-Grand-High-Bitch-Ass-Poobah Grim, would you say the same for John Lennon? Huh, fuck face? How about Marvin Gaye? Are you going to play the same stupid game for classic rock and R&B? Obviously, he only does so when it involves musicians and fans of a genre of music (by the way, he "cannot use the noble term music in a description of heavy metal") that he doesn't particularly like.

The most egregious lapse of common sense and human decency, however, comes with this passage...

"It was highly amusing, and also terribly sad, to watch on television fans conducting a "vigil" for the slain Mr. Abbott outside of the Alrosa Villa. It was an assemblage of ignorant, semi-human barbarians who were filthy in attire and manner, intellectually incoherent and above all else, hideously ugly to the point of physical deformity. Here is a definite case in which the outer appearance of these "fans" accurately represented the hideousness of their souls. That the physical deformity of their ugliness was self-inflicted makes the spiritual tragedy of their misspent lives all the more tragic."

Wow. I mean, just, wow. That another human being can look upon his fellows as such is, to me, simply staggering. I'm sure little Grimmy's mother once told him, "don't judge a book by it's cover," but obviously, Grim is either too stupid or hate-filled to even comprehend such a thing.

If Grim were to meet me on the street, he would have no idea. Cargo pants, nice black shoes, a plain t-shirt, short hair; he would consider me, most likely, "a nice young man." If he talked to me, he'd likely think that I was loquacious but articulate. If he were to read my (formal) writing, he'd likely say that I was a well-educated man.

Of course, if he caught me listening to, say, Cannibal Corpse, he'd automatically think, well, everything he said in the quoted passage. That, my friends, is the very definition of a jackass douchebag.

Forget the fact that most metalheads are only "metalheads" at a show. Forget the fact that they hold regular jobs, raise families, and contribute just as much to our society as some prick conservative hacks I could name. In Grim's microscopically narrow view, "heavy metal = bad" and fuck-all to any mitigating circumstances.

Oh, but Grim isn't done yet, not by far. Now he wants to show you just how ignorant he really is by blasting Dime...

"He was an ignorant, barbaric, untalented possessor of a guitar and large amplifier system. Freakish in appearance, more simian than human, he was the performer of a type of "entertainment" that can be likened only to a gorilla on PCP. Lacking subtlety, wit, style, emotional range and anything approaching even the smallest iota of intellectual or musical interest, Mr. Abbott was part of a generation that has confused sputum with art and involuntary reflex actions with emotion."

Sweet. Fucking. Jesus. Remember, Grim is (supposedly) a homo sapien. How this man was intelligent enough to ever survive, much less put his native grunts and screeches into human speech, is far, far beyond me. And, of course, you know the spineless taint never would've written such a thing if Dime was able to defend himself.

William Grim, you are not a human. You are not an animal. You are neither plant nor mineral. You are, as far as any intelligent, moral person is concerned, below sub-atomic.

You are not worthy to be part of the aerial flotsam of dust and dead skin cells that floats through the air. You embarrass leeches and lampreys. If you were to fall into raw sewage, you would repel it as water does oil. You would make a compost heap gag.

When you depart this world, maggots and worms will refuse to feast on your corpse for fear of passing on your horrid, diseased life-force to their offspring. And, if your god exists, you will stand before him and, when he looks at you, he will be ashamed that he ever allowed such as yourself to be counted among his creation.

The words you wrote about your fellow humans should be remembered for posterity and taught to young children everywhere as a cautionary tale against proudly abject and wanton ignorance, profound stupidity, and blind hatred.

For his crimes, William Grim has moved to the top of my "List of People I'd Sooner Chop in the Throat Than Look At." And, let me tell you, folks, it takes a lot to knock Fred Phelps down a rank.

Robb Flynn and Machine Head even wrote a song called "Aesthetics of Hate," and they dedicated it to the tragic death of "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott and the tragic birth of William Grim.

Adding further insult to injury, Grim only used Dime's death and the fans' mourning to launch off into a typical "evil leftist" screed.

In closing, kudos to Machine Head, and all the other bands and metalheads, for carrying on Dime's legacy by continuing to make and appreciate good music. Double kudos to Flynn for calling out and savaging Grim's ill-conceived and cold-hearted rant.

And, Grim? Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, I can only say, "Fuck you up the ass with a concrete dildo. Sideways. Twice."

Flynn's initial reaction to Dime's death (and several examples of what a nice guy he really was) can be found
here. By doing a Google search for "Dimebag," you can find many other examples from fans and musicians alike.

Thursday, March 29, 2007


It is doubtless that many of you have heard of the "Evil Atheist Conspiracy." Most would see this as an offshoot of the Christian "persecution complex," or the egotistical rants of the "intelligent design" faction, who can only define their "science" by picking through the debris on the fringe of evolution.

In other words, most would hear of the "Evil Atheist Conspiracy" and either scoff or chuckle.

However, as my in-depth investigation has uncovered, the conspiracy runs deeper than anyone could imagine...


The Great Hall is massive; mounted heads from thousands of rare species line the walls. A table big enough to seat forty is in the middle of the room.

Some thirty-to-thirty-five scientists sit at or around the table in groups of three to five.

The Biologists sit in the floor by the table. They wear tattered lab coats and feast on a human body in torn bishop’s garb.

A trio of Chemists are clad in heavy robes to hide their hideous burns. They speak in serpentine rasps.

The Classical Physicists and the Quantum Physicists sit across from each other at the table; each group eyes the other warily. A Theoretical Physicist alternately watches both groups; no one seems to notice him.

The Astronomers are in their true alien forms. They are nearly impossible to describe because no one can stand to look at them for more than half a second at a time. They use alien technology and satellites to beam communication directly into one’s brain and, for some reason, smell like butterscotch pudding.

The Archeologists are dressed in suits made of bones held together by string and wear extinct animal skulls for helmets. They are naked under the bone suits, which is readily apparent. They stand because sitting down is both awkward and very uncomfortable.

The Anthropologists are dressed in a mish-mash of armor from various historical periods and carry mean-looking swords and axes. Everyone else gives them some space, but not because of the cutlery; they smell a little ripe.

The Mathematicians hover quietly overhead on a construct of imaginary numbers. Show offs.

The medical field is represented by a coked-up Pharmaceutical CEO, a Surgeon who is busy dissecting a human hand, and an HMO Lawyer who, everyone agrees, is a true nexus of evil.

Of course, the Atlanteans, who gave us pitiful humans all our technology, sit with smugly superior smirks. Despite their vast knowledge, they are really quite goofy.

Lastly, a Representative from the White House, Lloyd C. BETTINGHAUSER III, the son of one of Dick Cheney’s old frat brothers. He keeps checking over his shoulder to make sure that the Biologists haven’t noticed him.

RICHARD DAWKINS walks in the room. He has horns and a slight reddish tint to his eyes. Dawkins walks to the table, sits down at the head, and puts up his feet.

Dawkins has dropped his usual thoughtful, deliberate, scholarly manner; he’s more of a slick, fast-talking sort.

Right, then. Everyone here?

Before anyone can answer...

Good. Let’s get on with it, I’ve got a meeting with the Pope in an hour. We have a visitor from the White House, Mr. Bettinghauser, who’s here to observe the way we do things. Please, don’t eat him, or control his mind, or make him soil himself in fear. First order of business; Biologists, what have you got?

A BIOLOGIST looks up, drops an arm, and shambles over on all fours. When he reaches the table, he stands up, wipes some blood from his mouth, and says...

How are you, Richard?

Fine, fine.

Hybrids. We’ve got some interesting ideas. We’ve even brought a sample.

The Biologist turns to his group and says something in a strange language that sounds like a combination of monkey screeches and Klingon.

Another biologist ambles over, bows, and presents a stuffed and mounted combination of a puppy and a zebra. Dawkins raises an eyebrow.

It’s a zebrador retriever, sir.

I can see that. That’s all well and good, but I don’t exactly think cute will help further our evil, secular, materialist plot of total world domination, do you?

Oh, no, no! I made this for my daughter. She wanted a stuffed animal, so I let her kill it, clean it, and mount it herself. You know kids and their toys.

Good show, old man. They’re so adorable when they're covered in gore, aren't they? And I trust you’re still working on the other project?

Yes sir. We'll have syphilis airborne in less than three months.

Excellent. Thank you. Oh, and why don’t you cook me up a tiger/parrot hybrid? I want to fly it to work.

Of course, sir.

Mathematicians, you still have God locked up in that tiny invisible box?

The Mathematicians all start speaking in rapid sequences of numbers and technical jargon. Dawkins cuts them off...

In a language other than super-smart-ass!

The Mathematicians all look at each other. They nod in unison.

That’s all you had to say. Archeologists?

An ARCHEOLOGIST, wearing a sabertooth tiger helmet, salutes the group.

Your Lordship, our conspiracy to plant aged specimens of "dinosaurs" and other "ancient species" was nearly discovered, but we’ve taken care of it.

Ah, yes. What was that chap’s name? Hoving?

Something like that, sir.

I trust you fed him to the Biologists?

No, sir. Actually, as it turns out, he hadn’t paid his taxes in quite a while, so...

Some at the table wince or shift uncomfortably; Dawkins whistles...

Poor sod. Those IRS guys are right bastards.

There’s a general murmur of agreement from the table.

And all traces of alien or Atlantean culture on Earth are still under wraps.

The Archeologist nods at the Atlanteans and, after he shields his eyes, the Astronomers; they nod back.


An ANTHROPOLOGIST, wearing a Centurion helmet, a Mongolian fur vest, and the legs to a suit of armor, stands.

We’ve eliminated or summarily dismissed all archeological evidence of a Young Earth.

And that "Lost Tomb of Jesus," that was your work, I assume?

It was mostly Cameron, sir. Of course, once he contacted us we told him what he wanted to hear.

So, the real tomb is still safe?

Ten feet under a kosher deli, sir.

Splendid. Astronomers?

Dawkins (who seems to have no problem looking at the Astronomers) acts like he’s listening to a voice inside his head; everyone else does the same.

Oh, well done, Astronomers, well done.

Everyone claps.

Oh, that is evil! And that part at the end with the "Face on Mars?" What you gentlemen do is an art, not a science, and I mean that, I really do. If the rest of you were as effective as the Astronomers we’d be right in the thick of a Reign of Darkness.

Dawkins gives the Astronomers a "thumbs up"; they nod.

Chemists? I see you’ve all healed up nicely since the last meeting.

A CHEMIST stands.


And what have you been working on?

Throwing sssssssssmall children into vatsssssss of asssssssid.

And how’s that coming along?


Or not, I suppose.

Dawkins chuckles, the others laugh, and the Chemists hiss in delight.

Yessssss! You are correct, ssssssssir!

You Chemists brighten my day. Physicists?

A CLASSICAL PHYSICIST and a QUANTUM PHYSICIST stand up; they never take their eyes off of each other.

Everything’s copacetic, sir.

As smooth as silk, sir.


If I may say something, I...

You may sit down and shut up.

The Theoretical Physicist plops down and pouts.

Has anyone come anywhere close to a unified theory?

Not if we have anything to say about it.


You fellows still hate each other?


Damn skippy.

As long as you get the job done. Atlanteans?

The Atlanteans wave at Dawkins like Jethro from the "Beverly Hill Billies."

Love what you’re doing. Keep it up.

The Atlanteans grin and give him a collective "thumbs up."


The PHARMA CEO stands up and bows.

My liege. Our surgeon reports that malpractice suits are down while "accidental" or "natural" deaths are steadily climbing.

The surgeon stabs the dissected hand several times and giggles to himself.

And we hope to have 30% more Prozac in the drinking water by next year.

Outstanding. And, finally, our esteemed guest and closest friend, the Prince of Darkness, Satan!

A jet of fire shoots from the floor and reveals Satan in all his stereotypical glory (red, horns, fangs, cloven hooves, etc.).

Hail Satan!

Dickie D., my man!

How are you, old friend?

Dawkins stands up, hugs Satan, and reclaims his perch.

Feeling good, feeling good. I would’ve gotten here sooner but I had a meeting with Pat Robertson.

Yes, of course. How is all that going?

It’s all aces, baby. I’ve got Robertson, Falwell, Dobson, all of ‘em in my pocket. As long as I keep the money and the adoration flowing, they’ll say that Paula Abdul is the Second Coming.

Was that you, with the whole Haggard ordeal?

Nope. He’s the one who liked meth and man-ass, not me.

It goes to show you never can tell.

As of now, everything’s moving along quite well. The Christians think all the Muslims are out to get them, the Muslims think anyone from the West is out to get them, and the Jews think everyone’s out to get them. Honestly, it’s getting too easy, drill sergeant.

I know, and it’s not quite as fun as it used to be.

On the bright side, that whole "intelligent design" kick is doing better than I had imagined.

How so?

Well, remember how we had to slip Behe a mickey just to win the Dover Trial? Ever since then, I don’t know, it’s like they all went crazy. I haven’t had any contact with them since last year but they just keep digging themselves deeper and deeper. I was able to devote more time to death cults and UFO cults, though, so I’ve got some really nifty ones coming out next year. And I got "The Secret" on Oprah, too, so...

There is a rousing round of applause.

That’s why you're the master.

Thanks, Dick. All my usual rackets are coming out even; alternative medicine, nightmare philosophy, Wall Street, public education, politics. An even keel all around, you might say.

Glad to hear it.

Oh, and kudos on the book, by the way.

Thanks, old boy. Well, does that cover it? Anyone else?

Dawkins listens to the Astronomers in his head. Some people sigh or groan after they do the same.

Jolly good point, Astronomers. Now, calm down! They’re right, you know. Every meeting, we end up performing the virgin sacrifice in the middle of the orgy because some people...

Dawkins gives the Biologists a dirty look. They all avert their eyes.

...can’t seem to control their bloodlust. Honestly, it’s so anti-climactic, no pun intended. So, for once, let’s enjoy the orgy and perform the sacrifice after, so we’ll have something to look forward to. OK? Everyone?

There’s a general murmur of reluctant agreement.

Good. Well, this meeting of the Evil Atheist Conspiracy has closed.

Dawkins motions to the Biologists. One of them hands him an arm. Dawkins brings the arm down on the table like a gavel.

Now, let us pray...

Dawkins hits a button on the underside of the table. A panel slides out of the ceiling and a glass coffin comes down on two chains.

The mummified corpse of Charles Darwin (complete with several mummified finches) descends. All the scientists get down on their knees and chant...

Hail Darwin! Hail Darwin! Hail Darwin!

After crossing themselves with pentagrams, the scientists stand up and begin moving towards the Orgy Room. Dawkins walks over to Bettinghauser.

Mr. Bettinghauser, is it?

Yes, sir.

Will you be staying for the orgy?

Bettinghauser, who was nervous the entire time, finally perks up a bit.

Really? Well, sure. Why not?

Dawkins grins; Bettinghauser does the same.

Great. You can have him first, Chemists.

Dawkins slaps Bettinghauser on the back and disrobes as he walks towards the Orgy Room. Bettinghauser is frozen with shock until a Chemist puts an arm over his shoulders and leads him to the Orgy Room.


57th Skeptic's Circle at Aardvarchaeology!

'Yon 57th Skeptic's Circle is up at Aardvarchaeology. There you will find a collection of insightful, articulate missives, a group of enlightening and amusing skeptics, and... Some jackass with a fake church? Really?

Tuesday, March 27, 2007


Yeah, yeah, it's still March, I know, but if you live at a beach that gets cold in the winter, summer starts when you get that first good run of warm to hot days. No spring for us, baby, nuh-uh.

We'd rather enjoy the summer before it starts baking you where you stand.

I've got two gripes already, though. One that I've come to accept but still dislike and one that I will never, ever understand and refuse to tolerate.

Pollen. Necessary evil, true, but one of the more annoying ones. It's not so much because of allergies; I've been sneezy as of late, but I'm used to that. I hate walking outside and thinking, "Damn, that yellow car is fugly," then realizing that it's mine. I've got nothing against yellow cars, I just like the color mine used to be.

The real gripe is something much, much worse. And something that's wholly preventable.

Common courtesy is, to all civilized humans, an essential part of social interaction. We hold doors for complete strangers; we stop to help someone if they drop something; we converse jovially with cashiers, waiters, and other people we encounter who we will, most likely, see only rarely or never again.

I mean, you wouldn't see something weird like, say, a person walking alongside someone else in an effort to prevent that person from finding an entrance to a building. You would call that person an asshole or a nutjob. In fact, that scenario is pretty unlikely, as a person would tire of the asshole/nutjob's antics and either push the asshole/nutjob out of the way or find a police officer to talk a bit of sense into the asshole/nutjob.

So why have I had that exact same scenario happen to me five times in as many days? Just put the asshole/nutjob in a car and substitute "highway" for "building."

Why can't people understand the simple concept of a merging ramp on a highway? If you're in the right lane and you see cars trying to merge onto the highway from your right, move over.

Unless you're in heavy traffic or being passed on the left, if you see cars trying to merge into the lane you are currently in, move the fuck over.

This is neither brain science, nor is it rocket surgery.

I'll even admit that, sometimes, I'm not the most courteous guy. If I'm in a bad mood, I'll be a little short with people. If I have to wait for an inordinate amount of time when it shouldn't take so damn long, I'll get annoyed. And if I get attitude or bad service without provoking it, I'll get downright surly.

Face to face with other people is one thing. A car, the very act of driving, is a whole 'nother ball of shit.

People seem to forget how frighteningly dangerous automobiles can be. They just hop in the car and drive on down the road, putting on make-up, reading, carrying on in-depth conversations while looking at the passenger, or just staring off into space while people around them are trying not to die.

That's why common courtesy applies more so on the road. Being casually incourteous in your normal life might miff some people or get you an old-fashioned "down-pegging."

Being casually incourteous in your car, on the road, at speed might kill or seriously injure a number of people in horrible ways, not to mention the property damage and insurance headaches.

So, to all the assholes. Move the fuck. Please.

To calm down from the blinding rage induced by driving a mere four miles, I found this...

Bobby Brown - "On Our Own" (From "Dance! ...Ya Know It!" and "Ghostbusters II")

Say what you will about Bobby Brown now, but Bobby Brown circa 1989 was, in the parlance of James Brown, super-bad.

I'm not much on the
video (they took some editing liberties with the song) but some of the random celebrity cameos are surprising. How about a young Chris Reeve?

This is one song I've never found in a karaoke bar, which is surprising. Give me a couple of people on back-up and I guarantee I could "tear the roof off the mother."

*NOTE* In the last post, I mistakenly attributed the song "Bitch School" to the Spinal Tap movie. It should be (From "Break Like the Wind"). Thanks to Dikkii for pointing it out.

I'd edit the actual post, but I seem to be having problems doing so. I'll try again later, promise.

Sunday, March 25, 2007


The saddest thing about the modern rock scene is that none of the acts are better than, say, (A) a fake 70's rock band populated by idiots, (B) a fake 80's metal band fronted by a no-name singer who looks a lot like Marky Mark, or (C) a fake death metal band, with a bass player named "William Murderface," which happens to be "the world's 12th largest economy."

Here are the Rev. Jenner J. Hull's three favorite songs from fictional bands...

(*Fair Warning* As always, the language is going to be profane (which should be expected), and the videos may be, as some would say, NSFW. Since I've only had one job that allowed me the luxury of doing anything on a computer that wasn't related to work, this N/SFW concept is new to me but I'll try to be aware and alert people when I link to the sort of video seen below. )

Spinal Tap - "Bitch School" (From "Break Like the Wind") *Not From "This is Spinal Tap," like I previously said. What am I? A moron? Yes.*

Years ago, my friends and I decided to separate the words "idiot" and "moron." While "moron" stayed the same (e.g. *scoff* "What a fuckin' moron"), "idiot" came to be known as a term of endearment for those acquaintances and/or individuals who exhibited behavior so outlandishly, self-consciously stupid that no other label would adequately apply. Within weeks, saying "that guy's a fuckin' idiot" was considered a badge of honor, a complete and utter confirmation of total hilarity. The trend continues to this day; most recently, watching "Arrested Development" DVD's and screaming, "Will Arnett/David Cross/Tony Hale is such an idiot!"

So, the members of Spinal Tap are "the idiot's idiots." The video for
"Bitch School" is a flawless example of idiocy at work; the chick biting off a chunk of chalk almost kills me every time. With laughter.

And, just for kicks,
Nigel Tufnel at his best.

Steel Dragon - "We All Die Young" (From "Rock Star")

I'll admit, I was wary when I heard about "Rock Star." I liked Mark Wahlberg in "Boogie Nights" and always enjoyed Jennifer Aniston more as an actor than eye candy, but neither seemed like the type to carry a rock and roll movie. Once I found out that Zakk Wylde (pardon me, "Zakk Motherfuckin' Wylde") was doing the git-fiddlin', it was a lock.

As it turned out, it was a damn good movie with a killer 80's metal soundtrack. Between Jeff Scott Soto providing vocals and Michael Matijevic's performance on
"We All Die Young," it's enough to make me yearn for a beat-up, frayed Steel Dragon concert tee.

Dethklok - "Deththeme" (From "Metalocalypse")

A cartoon death metal band on Adult Swim? You bet your sweet bippy it's funny.

The weirdest thing about "Metalocalypse," though, is the fact that it was created by the same guy who made the constantly entertaining "Home Movies," Brendon Small.

Compare the
"Franz Kafka" rock-opera from "Home Movies" with...

opening theme for every "Metalocalypse" episode.

A couple of handfuls of kudos go to Brendon Small for some fortuitous speed metal riffs. His solo at the end of the
"Dethjingle" (AKA "Duncan Hills Coffee") is sickening.

Friday, March 23, 2007


I couldn’t resist dealing with another "ology." Background follows...

As a child, I was one of those day-dreaming, overly-imaginative sorts. Always thinking about something off the wall, coming up with jokes, trying to invent weird new games to keep my friends and I occupied.

And, like most children, I was naturally gullible, probably because of the excessive imagination. The gullibility went away as I aged but I can still vividly remember being scared shitless of Bigfoot because I thought he was a real thing; for a while, I wouldn’t sleep up top in a bunk bed because "that was the perfect height for Bigfoot victims."

I’d see a strange light in the sky and immediately think "UFO," because people seeing them seemed like a pretty common thing and aliens were, by far, the most interesting beings that could ever exist, except for dragons. I was both fascinated and frightened by the prospect that, someday, I might see a real ghost.

I readily believed stories that would now seem obviously fabricated or embellished beyond the point of falsehood.

Why did I believe these things? I was like every kid you’ve ever known; I had no real reason to believe that I was being lied to. And I was seven or eight.

I understood the concept of lying, having mastered the straight-faced, look-you-in-the-eyes, "I didn’t do it," as a defense mechanism against my father’s unfathomable (albeit periodic) wrath. So, I understood lying to save my ass (literally), but not lying about something that was either (a) totally inconsequential and/or (b) potentially really embarrassing.

Since my heroes at that time were Bugs Bunny, Wile E. Coyote, and Daffy Duck, I had no real concept of fame and celebrity, i.e., "famous adults were working a job like my parents and had no desire to be famous for the sake of being famous." Also, "How could an adult ever hope to be as cool as Bugs?"

So, I never even considered that the people who claimed to have seen the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or Little Green Men would be doing it for exposure, a lark, and/or because they were crazy.

Sometimes innocence sucks. And it’s too bad that we have to get jaded to get wise.

So, for a time, I accepted the people who saw weird things like unknown creatures and "bonafide miracles" as truthful because, quite frankly, I knew I couldn’t get away with, "Yes, there’s a bigfoot living on the mountain by my house and I’ve seen it," and I figured that no one else could or would attempt something so ridiculous.

And, yeah, sometimes, through no fault of our own, innocence makes us a little stupid.

Once we grow up and start actively learning about the world, however, we, for the most part, drop our previously-held irrational fears and superstitions for a more honest and logical outlook on the world. That’s why most intelligent, mature adults consider Bigfoot an urban legend and aliens an intriguing possibility.

When faced with reflexology, the "massaging of feet to cure and diagnose disease," I think even my childhood counterpart would say, honestly and with no malice...

"Mister? You’re full of shit."

That didn't stop me from doing some super-scientific reflexological research, though. Here are the Scout's Honor, No Bullshit, Experimentariffic Findings...


-By vigorously massaging the ball of the foot in a clockwise motion, the patient will launch into a pitch-perfect cover of Dean Martin’s "Non Dimenticar," regardless of the patient’s gender. (*Note* Great for Italian weddings and YouTube videos.)

-By jabbing a finger sharply between the first and second toes, the patient will have total recall of his/her past life as a clam. (*Note* Patient may have been a Scientologist.)

-By rubbing on the left and right side of the heel, the patient will begin speaking "l33t" and will try to "pwn" you. (*Note* Whatever you do, do not refer to patient as a "n00b.")

-By pulling both the first toe and the fourth toe, the patient will promptly shit him/herself. (*Note* If you must do this, be prepared to run.)

-By pressing down very hard between the bones on the top of the foot, the patient will scream something like, "Ow, that hurts, you prick!" (*Note* This is a normal reaction and should never be taken as a genuine admission of pain or discomfort.)

-By repeatedly punching the arch of the foot, the patient will have an orgasm. (*Note* Only tested once on some chick I picked up at a fetish party, but makes sense.)

-By licking a patient’s foot from the Achilles tendon to the arch, the patient will, for some reason as of yet unknown to reflexology, experience a high level of discomfort. (*Note* Additional trials have confirmed this in all but one patient.)

In all seriousness, a self-made quote comes to mind in regards to this type of woo.

I wasn't talking about reflexology at the time but it still fits...

"An intelligent person says, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Only a moron says, ‘I’ll see it when I believe it.’"

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


For thousands of years, people have used the planets and stars as a giant decoder ring for life. Proponents of this particular brand of woo claim astonishing success in a wide range of predictions and assertions, from divining a person’s exact destiny to telling people who they really are.

So, just how hard is it to lay down an astrological chart with a fair amount of accuracy for anyone?

As we discovered, not very.

See if you can find yourself on this list. Let the stars be your guide!



You’re fun-loving and a free spirit but possess a rebellious streak that often puts you at odds with various people. You don’t get along well with authority figures but, due to your amiable nature, seem to always avoid serious punishment. Even though you’re a natural born leader, you don’t like to flaunt it.


Though most would see you as gruff and self-centered, you are, at the core, selfless and trustworthy. Though you prefer to look out for yourself (and trust others to do the same), you will not hesitate to help those in need. Sure, you might run with a fairly rough crowd but the Schwartz is strong with you...


As a paragon of confidence and cool, people often come to you for advice and instruction. Though you move in some of the "in-crowd" cliques, you consider yourself an outsider above such petty concepts as "popularity" or "tact." You also enjoy vaguely Eastern philosophy, especially when applied to sports and recreation.


You’re a dreamer, one of those ambitious people who locks in on an accomplishment or goal and sees it through to the very end. Sometimes, you tend to neglect everything else while seeking this goal, but you know that, in the end, everything will work out for the best. "San Dimas High School Football Rules!"


Some say that you don’t have a serious bone in your body, and they might be right. It’s not that you’re a useless buffoon, it’s just that your sense of humor inevitably crosses over into everything you do. Even when performing groundbreaking and dangerous scientific experiments, you’re more apt to make jokes about a co-worker than just do your job.

(A.K.A. "Arnold Babar," "Mr. Poon," "Peter Lemon Jello," "Jane Doe," etc.)

When someone once told you "You can be anyone you want to be," you took them literally and decided to apply it to your entire life. You may seem flippant and nonchalant, but deep down inside, you care deeply about the plight of the common, downtrodden person. Of course, you care more deeply about the opposite sex...


You’re a self-made individual with a madness to your method, and you aim to keep it that way. However, while you’re making your way in life, you vow to have a good time above all else because what’s the use in having money if you can’t enjoy it? Family comes first, but never at the expense of fun. You’re even bold enough to bitch out Kurt Vonnegut.


Loyal to the last, you value friendship and comradery above all else. When anyone close to you is in need, you’re one of the first to jump into action and do so instantly. Though you’re not the most popular person in the crowd, you know that, once people accept you for who you are, you’ll be just fine. Your laugh is infectious.


You know that real genius lies in the ability to inspire and encourage others. While you may be a smart cookie, your interests lean more towards relaxing and displaying your odd sense of humor. Though some may see you as a goofball, your sense of right and wrong never cramps your unique style. You heart toxic waste.


No matter what kind of outrageous antics are going on, no matter what kind of impossible situation you find yourself in, you always manage to keep a straight face and get the job done, albeit, mostly in strange ways. You are well-respected by your peers and co-workers. Why, we don’t know.


Being young and talented isn’t always easy. You must work hard and listen to those wiser and more experienced than you. You must also avoid unnecessary temptations, only then will you be ready to move up to "The Show." You got that, Meat?


Due to your amazing abilities, people are always looking to use you for their own nefarious purposes. As long as you rely on your friends and your various talents, you’ll find what you’re looking for. And always look on the bright side; you’re alive!

Did you find yourself? I bet you did!

I’d like to think of myself as a Fletch or Lone Starr, but I’m more of a Bill and Ted.

All right, fine, I’m a Skolnick. Happy now? Sheesh...

Sunday, March 18, 2007


Although I didn't do a whole lot of drinking last night (Honest!), I'm sure a bunch of people have bad-ass hangovers today (I'm looking at you, Savannah, Georgia). Here's the musical panacea...

Shane MacGowan and the Popes - "B&I Ferry" (From "The Crock of Gold")

Irish Reggae!



I had this approximate (slightly embellished) conversation, one of the more random, pointless, and utterly stupid ones in recent memory, a few weeks back. I have no idea what made me think of it; I chuckled for a second then went, "Wait. That’s the stupidest crap I’ve ever heard." Then I kinda felt bad for even participating in such a thing.

The following conversation took place between the Rev. Jenner J. Hull and a friend (incidentally, the same one whose dog pissed on his ass) who we will refer to as, oh, how ‘bout "Marzipan."

I’ve known a "Jambalaya," a "Brown Eyes," and "A Girl Named Stanley." I even met a guy who insisted on being called either "Super Jew" or "Jewy." (I called him "Jewy," so I could be Han Solo.)

I’ve always really, really wanted a "Marzipan." And I don’t know why.

The discussion began when I was extolling the duties of the "shotgun" passenger while riding in my car...

Your only job is "deer and cop watch." That’s it. That’s all you do. I watch the road, you watch for deer and cops. Deer, cop. Deer, cop.

Deer cop? Like, a deer that’s a cop?

Well, that would be weird. And awkward. I’ve hit a deer. [In the car, of course.]

Me, too. Give a deer a badge and a gun and it’s all over, especially if he pulls you for speeding.

Deer cop’s probably got a beer belly. And he’s gotta wear a little deer cop yarmulke since he can’t wear a regular Statie hat, on account of the antlers.

Unless it’s a doe cop.

Oh, come on. We just got over the deer discrimination in general, it’ll take time before there are equal deer rights amongst the general deer population, much less the deer cops.

They’d probably be all pissy with everyone.

Yeah. Deer cop says, [with an exaggerated southern drawl] "License and registration, human." And then he scowls and looks at you... [RJJH turns his head to the right, then the left, then the right, then the left.]

"You were goin’ awful fast there, boy. You know, my kind were here before your goddamn roads were. My yearlings play in that field right there."

Deer cop’s checking out the I.D. and saying, "I see you got a gun rack, huh? Think that makes you a man? Hell, my grand-pappy gored some old redneck what lived down the road a ways and tore one of his damn nuts off; he didn’t need no gun."

Then deer cop leans in the window and goes, [sniffs twice] "Is that venison I smell, boy?"

And you know PETA would love it. Until one of ‘em gets tasered by a deer cop.

Then I got to thinkin’ about other interesting anthropomorphic animal occupations...

Deers probably wouldn’t make good cops. Too skittish. Might as well make ‘em park rangers or other government employees in the Forestry or Agriculture departments.

Dogs would make better cops. They’re smart, fast, efficient, and, when called upon to be so, vicious as motherfuckers. Dogs from, say, Labs, Shepherds, and such up will be the beat cops and special units. Imagine a SWAT team of Neopolitan Mastiffs, Great Danes, and Irish Wolfhounds. Some of the smaller breeds, like your Poms and Miniature or Teacup whatnots, can do the detective and desk work. Of course, all the Dalmations would want to be firefighters...

Goats as trash collectors and in sanitation related public works is a must.

Whales, dolphins, and orcas as Coast Guard. Obviously.

Horses? Taxis.

Cats would be the artists. Not like they’d deign to do much of anything else.

It’s a dead mole on my doormat.

You just don’t understand my art! Hiss!

Given the current political climate, we’d imagine people would only vote for weasels, skunks, or snakes. The Eagle Party would probably be a lock, too. (Stephen, Jr. in ‘08!)

Birds would run the post office; night mail from owls and bats. Larger parcel delivery would require mules, camels, and/or elephants. So, regular mail would be faster but interstate trucking would be slower and much, much shittier. Literally.

Bears as bouncers and doormen. When they say, "You’re not on the list," they mean that shit.

Raccoons would probably end up being thieves. They’ve got the costume down and tend to be one of the sneakier woodland creatures. The smart ones would smuggle themselves into jewelry stores on some rich old ladies’ fur coat. And don’t bring up Daniel Boone; they tend to get all bitey.

Spiders would still be disgusting, horrible things. Yes, I admit it. I’m an arachnid racist.

Possums as panhandlers. I can see the sign now; "Will Eat Garbage For Food."

Finally, kangaroos in the NBA. Sure, they can’t run the point or shoot that well, but put ‘em in the paint and watch ‘em shatter the single-season rebound and block records. And you know they’re gonna kick ass in the long jump.

"What of the otters," you ask? Well, they’re already running every world-wide conspiracy you can name. Others may be afraid to speak out against them, but we see through the cute.

Rumor has it that they’re even funding the McCain presidential bid...

Saturday, March 17, 2007


Check out this post on GifS!

My man's even
put in a bid on the Great Pyramid. (Go to the bottom of the page and look under "Introducing the First Machine to Walk the Face of the Earth.")

Someone give him some kind of award, please. Better yet, give him a couple of hundred able-bodied workers and see what he can build...

Friday, March 16, 2007


As mentioned previously, I taught myself how to juggle.

And you can, too! All you need is three tennis balls and, at the most, an hour a day.

Begin with two balls, one in each hand. Since I’m a righty, we’ll start with that assumption.

Throw the ball in your right hand in an arc, with an apex not much higher than your own height, to your left hand. Make it high enough that you can see where it’s going but low enough so that you don’t have to wait for it. Watch it in the air.

When it starts to fall, throw the ball in your left hand, in a similar arc, to your right hand. The rising left-hand ball should pass inside of the falling right-hand ball.

Catch the right-hand ball in your left hand. The left-hand ball should be, roughly, at the apex of the arc. When it comes down, catch the left-hand ball in your right hand.

Repeat this until it is fluid. After a number of successful throws and catches in this manner, you should be able to memorize the strength and motion needed to float the balls from one hand to another. Remember, "Throw then catch!"

Once you have a somewhat fluid motion from right to left, try it from left to right.

For a related exercise, try two balls in one hand. This helps your timing and throwing immensely; if you can get a handful of catches one-handed, you can confidently juggle three balls.

When the two-ball method is memorized, add in the third ball.

With two balls in your right hand (one in the left), throw one of the two balls to the left hand. Throw/catch with the left hand, then try to throw/catch with the right hand. Catch the free ball in your left hand, then stop.

Do it again. And again. And again. Then switch your starting hand and do the whole three-catch exercise from the beginning.

When you’re comfortable with three catches, go for four.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Then move up to five catches.

By now, you should be able to go for more. When you’ve got free time, see how many catches you can get in a row.

Within three days of teaching myself how to juggle I was nailing a couple of hundred catches regularly.

Within a week of starting, I could do a couple of thousand catches while carrying on a heated and in-depth conversation with several people.

It won’t make you a living, unless you’re
Penn Jillette, Michael Goudeau, Jason Garfield, or Vova and Olga Galchenko (the nastiest of the nasty), but it’s still a fun skill to possess. Teach yourself in your spare time, then break it out amongst friends; I guarantee they’ll be, at the very least, somewhat impressed.

And watch
this Galchenko video for comedy gold...

Thursday, March 15, 2007


Hooray! My evil heron buddy is back!

See, there's this gigantic, crazy-eyed, blue-and-grey heron that loves to perch in the waterways near my abode. He scared the ever-living Hell out of me the first time I saw him, standing there in that flamingo pose and looking at me like, if he wasn't so damn skinny, he'd love to just tear me apart and devour me on the spot.

And, as mentioned, the heron has crazy eyes. And not like, "One of 'em's lazy," I mean so evil and hate-filled that I've named him "Swearengen," after Ian McShane's character on "Deadwood."

For this reason, it's not an uncommon thing to walk by the apartment building and see a weirdo in a heavy metal t-shirt yelling at a giant, crazy-eyed heron, "Sway-gen! Cocksucker! Sway-gen! Cocksucker!"

Maybe that's why the heron's always giving me evil looks.

Also, there's some massive car show going on down the way, so the usually packed roads are more-so; of course, the roads are packed with old street rods and muscle cars, so at least you have something pretty to drool over while you're stuck in traffic.

An episode of "Lost" a few weeks back (the one where Hurley found the VW in the jungle) featured the awesome Three Dog Night Cut, "Shambala." It was a good choice, given the context of the show and such, but it wouldn't have been my first pick...

Three Dog Night - "Eli's Coming" (From "Suitable for Framing")

Justin Timberlake says that he's "bringing sexy back."


Of course, those of us with musical taste and/or knowledge know that "sexy never left." It just got co-opted into the whole "label-manufactured-bands/American Idol" pop music scene and watered down so that sexy now just means, "a typical dance track with loud bass."

Listen carefully, Justin and fans.

Marvin and Tammy are sexy. Curtis Mayfield is sexy. Ann Wilson is sexy. Hell, even Three Dog Night got super-sexy with "Eli."

Stop trying to claim a "sexy monopoly" when you have no authority to do so. When it gets to the point where I'd rather listen to Justin Timberlake than Marvin Gaye, then you can go ahead and crown yourself "The Grand Dragon of Sexy" and bring back whatever the Hell you want.

Until then, just sell your records to thirteen year old girls and shut the fuck up.

"Eli's Coming" showcases the devastating Three Dog Night vocal layering that put them at the top of the 70's rock/soul game. Not content to simply sing like bad-asses, though, TDN also brings an accomplished band with a rock-solid groove.

The kicker here is, definitely, the emotional, belting, gospel-tinged vocals. Unlike the tinny, thin, wussy vocals of our modern era, the boys in TDN make you believe what they're singing. "Eli's coming, hide your heart, girl!" You might forget it's a song and start checking over your shoulder...

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


Since the Rev. Jenner J. Hull has been listening to more older stuff than newer over the past few days, this will be last installment of the horribly-named "Modern Funk Week."

We're also notoriously fickle. So much so that, the next time you, dear reader, check back, we might be soberly discussing the benefits of a diversified portfolio, offering samples of our latest needlepoint creations, or devoting this entire space to how much we love penguins.

And believe you us, we fucking love penguins.

We can't mention "Modern Funk" without urging you to, if you have not done so, go out immediately and buy a Galactic album. Any one will do, but we're gonna focus on the opening of their '98 release...

Galactic - "Hamp's Hump" and "Love on the Run" (From "Crazyhorse Mongoose")

"New Orleans' own Galactic" are still jamming strong, despite toiling in mainstream obscurity (they should be on the radio all the time) and suffering, like countless others, through Hurricane Katrina.

"Hamp's Hump," the playful, almost cartoony opening track, was the first Galactic song I ever heard and set the hook deep. After hearing the follow-up, "Love on the Run," I knew I had discovered a new favorite band.

As a former horn player, the Rev. Jenner J. Hull automatically respects a band with a good horn section, and Galactic's sax-master, Ben Ellman, is right up there with your Karl Densons and Skeriks. This live version of "Hamp's Hump" (found
here, in the audio/video section) lets him loose...

As for "Love on the Run," well, it just goes to show that Galactic's jam is sweeter than a jar of strawberry preserves. Unfortunately, now that Theryl DeClouet (a.k.a. the Houseman) has left the band, we won't be treated to anymore soulful, throwback vocals.

Here's hoping that the Houseman continues to make good music on his own time and the now-totally-instrumental Galactic comes out with another album. Now would be good.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

DAILY DOSE, 03.13.07

Since the "Modern Funk Week" was cut short by a spotty connection and the angry malaise prompted by having to deal with said connection, it shall continue unabated in "warmer climes" until we have, at least, five days worth of individuals and/or groups who still honor the spirit of the Funk in these, the Apocalyptic End Times of decent music.

Though our current choice is an older song (17 years old) the perpetrators are still alive and Funky, recently made the Grammy Award a bit more respectable, and are still making people listen to and love jazz/Funk/bluegrass who would, normally, never-ever-ever do so.

Bela Fleck and the Flecktones - "The Sinister Minister" (From "Bela Fleck and the Flecktones")

"The Sinister Minister" is now the Official Theme Song for the Rev. Jenner J. Hull. Just so's y'all know.

We'll be honest and say that the video version is a bit disappointing. They shave damn near a minute off the song and, for the sweet love of Eros, even cut into the bad-ass bass solo. Of course, we can look past this and see a compromise; at least they made the video in the first place.

This is one song that deserves to be played very loudly while driving very fast. You owe it to Bela. And me.

Hell, you owe it to yourself...

Monday, March 12, 2007


As the shredder-in-residence for Texan metal heroes Pantera, "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott (1966-2004) had cemented a place in rock history long before his tragic murder at the age of 38.

After Pantera’s stellar 1990 release, "Cowboys From Hell" broke onto the scene, American metal was instantly redefined. Featuring a raw, dark sound, crushing riffs, and Dime’s gymnastic fretwork, the boys (including Dime’s brother, Vinnie Paul on drums, Rex on bass, and Phil Anselmo on vocals) became instant classics in the eyes of those who wanted their heavy metal to be a little more, well, heavy.

Not content to let their debut album become their defining moment, Pantera continued to refine and expand their sound and, unlike a lot of young bands, kept getting better with every release. Credit goes to the group as a whole, but Dime’s relentless excellence and uncanny capacity for constantly surprising fans who think "he just can’t get any better" was a major factor.

After Pantera’s break-up, Dime and Vinnie Paul formed Damageplan and plotted a triumphant return to the metal scene. Taking a slightly different track from Pantera’s southern-fried thrash, they expanded the signature "Dime/Vinnie" sound even further while staying true to their metal roots.

On Dec. 8th, 2004 (which is either a terrible coincidence or a sick cosmic joke), while Damageplan was playing a show in Columbus, Ohio, a deranged man stormed the stage shot Dime five times; three others, Nathan Bray, Erin Halk, and Jeff "Mayhem" Thompson, were killed and several people were wounded. As the gunman was holding a hostage, a police officer, James Niggemeyer, managed to come upon him unnoticed and killed him before he could execute the hostage or harm anyone else. Dime died soon thereafter.

I used to wonder how people could get so worked up about people they had never met or known dying. I was sad when I heard about Jerry Garcia, Phil Hartman, and Stanley Kubrick, but Dime’s death was much more devastating. As a long-time fan and tireless advocate of Pantera’s unique brand of musical madness, it really felt like I’d lost a family member or, at the very least, a close friend.

As Vinnie Paul said about his brother, he had a heart "twice as big as Texas;" he also had the talent to match.

Now that I’ve sufficiently bummed myself out, on to the miracles...

MIRACLE #1: According to legend, young Dime was banned from competing in guitar competitions in his native Texas because he was too good.

MIRACLE #2: Influenced and was revered by guitar idols who had influenced him. Dime was even buried with Eddie Van Halen’s iconic yellow and black striped guitar; the axe was placed there by Eddie Van himself.

So Damn Funky...

Pantera - "Cemetery Gates" (From "Cowboys From Hell")

A perfect example of how Dime can go from gorgeous to evil in an instant. "Cemetery Gates" has always been my favorite Pantera Cut, mostly because of Dime’s mind-blowing squeals. There’s one at the end of the song that’s so high-pitched, it’s a wonder he didn’t bend the strings slam off the neck of the guitar.

Dime was an amazing human being and a consummate musician; he will be missed greatly.


Why is it that bad stuff only happens when I take a brief, self-imposed news exile?

On Friday, Boston singer
Brad Delp was found dead at his home.

On Sunday, the very funny
Richard Jeni shot and killed himself.

It looks like today's turning into an inadvertent day of death, as I'd already planned on performing the next Official Canonization. The Canonization will go ahead as scheduled but, afterwards, we'll try to lighten up the proceedings a bit.

Friday, March 9, 2007

DAILY DOSE, 03.09.07

So, the Rev. Jenner J. Hull ran into an old friend whom he hadn't seen in a month or so. After the obligatory greetings and inquiries as to "What's happening," the first thing he says is...

"Yeah, so my dog pissed on my ass the other night."

It may have been the first time I ever heard that sentence, but I hope it ain't the last.

I've also decided to coin a new phrase to describe the dial-up connnection I now find myself stuck with.

"Uphill Molasses." I feel that it's self-explanatory. You can also add your own qualifiers depending on the severity of your situation. "Frozen Uphill Molasses." "Uphill Molasses Underwater." "Uphill Molasses on a Dead Sloth."

Because of the Uphill Molasses, I don't feel like hunting down a video of the next Cut (if one even exists).

Karl Denson's Tiny Universe - "Because of Her Beauty" (From "The Bridge")

A musician buddy of mine would refer to this as "The Panty Dropper."

Regardless of your gender, sexual orientation, or taste in unmentionables, the soulful, soothing jazz/Funk of Karl Denson may not rile your loins, but it will cause uncontrollable booty shaking.

Besides great lyrics (love, love, love the chorus), Karl and the fellows (including trombone master Fred Wesley) keep a solid, flowing Groove throughout. There's not as much free-form jazz lunacy as some of the other Cuts from the album (all great, by the way) but it offers a good, smooth counterpoint for those that want to slow the Funk down a bit.

As always, Karl and his Tiny Universe flat-out refuse to disappoint...

Monday, March 5, 2007


The Rev. Jenner J. Hull is back in VA for the week. It's a bittersweet sojourn, because I'm cat-sitting for my parents and I'm highly allergic to cats.

Yeah. I know. "How can you even stay in the house?"

It's actually not so bad because the feline in question, Loki (the Norse God of Mischief), is mostly an outside cat. I'll have to take an allergy pill every morning but, honestly, it ain't as horrible as it should be. Although, I do have to wash my hands every time I touch the cat. If I don't and I happen to touch my face, it's over. The breathing stops, the eyes close up, and the face swells up; if I don't have an inhaler handy, I might just find out if, as an atheist, I'm right or wrong.

In this case, Death is yellow and white, soft and furry, and likes to rub up against your legs. And he's adorable. The bastard...

We don't quite know why, but we're designating this week as "Modern Funk Week." Until I return to the beach, we're going to be showcasing only modern bands and artists who are not only Funky (because, as we've seen, even country singers like Jerry Reed can be Funky) but intentionally bring the Funk on a regular basis.

First, the best rock/gospel/blues band you've never heard...

Robert Randolph and the Family Band - "I Need More Love" (From "Unclassified")

Robert Randolph cut his pedal steel teeth playing in church, and it shows. The Family Band's groove combines strong gospel influences with all kinds of rock, blues, and, of course, Funk. The result is one of the tightest "jam bands" on the planet and a Funky force to be reckoned with.

The best part of "I Need More Love" is Danyel Morgan's mesmerizing bass and surprising voice; the guy looks like a UFC fighter but hits high parts like every pop singer wishes he could.

This is another one of those songs; if you can't get down to it, there's something seriously wrong with you.

Saturday, March 3, 2007


Sad news for those of us who love skepticism, humor, and quality radio programming.

Penn Jillette's amazing, hilarious, and infinitely interesting radio show (featuring the best co-host ever, Michael Goudeau) on Free FM has officially ended, at least for the time being. I'll offer a link to the official
Penn Radio homepage, but I don't know what will come of it in light of this depressing news.

I found Penn's show around October of last year and, since then, my brother and I have listened to it nearly every single day. When we went home to visit the family for Christmas, we went through Penn withdrawal because our ancestral home has the slowest dial-up connection known to man.

In the meantime, those who didn't religiously tune in to Penn's show (or, in my case, listen to it on the Net) can find a comprehensive archive at
PennFans; listen, laugh, and kick yourself in the ass for not discovering it earlier.

If you were a fanatical Penn Radio listener, drop Penn and Goudeau an e-mail at PennRadio(at)gmail(dot)com and let them know that you loved the show and eagerly await the triumphant return.

Dogspeed to P&G; here's hoping they come back, entertain, and inform us very soon.


Goddamn computers.

Something went wonky with the Church's Official Online Manifestation over the weekend. Like always, the Rev. Jenner J. Hull did everything in his meager power to correct the error, finally got pissed off when nothing worked, gave up, and decided to check out the situation today. Of course, now everything's kosher, like there was never a problem. Typical...

Anyway, since we've gone a full few days with nary a mention of the Groove or the Funk, we're going to make up for our involuntary procrastination with a Triple Dose of one of the Rev. Jenner J. Hull's all-time favorite bands.

Way back in 1991, a young Southern boy raised primarily on oldies and beach music discovered the soundtrack to the seminal 90's slacker sequel, "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey." In between the hair metal (Slaughter's "Shout it Out") and the kind of metal that makes stupid people think that all Metalheads worship the Devil (Megadeth's "Go to Hell"), Primus' "Tommy the Cat," with a mind-blowing bass line and Les Claypool's country-fried vocals, stood out like a bright, burning, beacon of bad-ass.

Ever since, Primus and all Claypool related projects (except for Oysterhead) have enjoyed a hallowed place in the Rev. Jenner J. Hull's music-obsessed heart.

Here are three of the Grooviest Primus tracks with their appropriate video links.

Primus - "Tommy the Cat" (From "Sailing the Seas of Cheese")

Since it was one of the first rock songs I came to truly love,
"Tommy the Cat" will forever be one of my favorite Cuts. Honestly, I didn't even know what those weird looking, extra-long, four-string git-fiddles were for until I heard Les Claypool work one over like he was a fucking mob enforcer. And, not to speak ill of Bill and Ted, but I find it hard to believe that anyone could beat Primus in a battle of the bands.

Primus - "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" (From the DVD with the album "Animals Should Not Try to Act Like People")

By the by, the "Animals Should Not Try to Act Like People" album has a DVD with every Primus video ever made and some select live performances; it comes highly recommended. Primus' cover of the Charlie Daniels Band's
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia" is good but not phenomenal, except for the awesome and creepy "a band of demons joined in" part of the song (the intersection of bluegrass and metal is something I've always loved hearing). The video is exceptionally good, though, especially if you love claymation.

Primus - "Mr. Krinkle" (From "Pork Soda")

Any song with a stand-up bass, cello, or any similar large, deep stringed instrument is automatically better than one without; if Les Claypool is the man beside said instrument, the odds are the song is going to kick a plethora of asses. This Cut is awesome, but the video for
"Mr. Krinkle" is sheer, ca-reepy perfection. All I have to say is, "Don't let the kids watch it before bedtime."