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You might think I’m out of line by saying this, but I seriously believe that some people, namely myself, should be allowed to walk down the street with a loaded automatic firearm. Preferably an MP5 or maybe an M 249 SAW. Fuck that. I wanna walk the streets with an Ultimax 100 MK4! And that’s mostly because some other people (not me) should die. That’s just unconscious knowledge. Girls who think a muffin top of back fat is acceptable should die. Guys who think Axe body spray will actually get them laid, die. Movie producers who hire private investigators to dig up dirt on other guys who just want to make shitty movies too should choke on a flee ridden horse cock. Joan Rivers. Anyone who votes green party just so they can complain after the elections, should not only die, but should be forced to walk through the streets of downtown Vancouver during business hours with 23 lbs of C-4 strapped to their chest reading excepts from Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” until the entire country jumps on the explosives in a mass suicide attempt to put themselves out of their self induced misery. Yep they should die.
You see… We live in a world that has firewalls. And those firewalls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Joe Kickass, you Tom A? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for deuce, and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That STEVE's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about in chat rooms, you want me on this site, you need me on the internet. I use words like honor, code, loyalty as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a group of people who rise and sleep under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then question the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
That is why I, Napalm Jones, have accepted the offer from Victor Fucking French to be his running mate in 2012. I believe that I have the spirit of real American values, the leadership skills, the raspy voice and enough knowledge of famous naked boobs to effectively run the entire universe. Sadly for Mr. French, it is I, not he, which will be the true winner. Because I will of course put a bullet from my Taurus PT 137 .45mm sidearm in the back of his crusty A’s cap three seconds after his win is announced and step regally into the spotlight. So, I urge you all to vote for Victor French in 2012, because a vote for French is a vote for me.
– Five Ears for awesome shit that makes me want to fight, fuck or kill! – Four Ears for well above average stuff that gives me a chubby – Three Ears for well-rounded but average... like a white girl's ass – Two Ears for subpar material that makes my crotch itch – One Ear for shit that makes me want to fight, fuck, or kill for the wrong reasons. – An added testicle for shit that is in between.
Was it wrong of me to think I was walking into the sequel to Clash Of The Titans? You know the Greek god of the ocean tormenting Harry Hamlin’s gay ass with his trident all around the world until he meets three topless sirens at the end of the universe played of course by Scarlett, Jessica, and Jessica (AKA Jo-albiehl, the tri-fecta) that make Poseidon instantly spurt such a huge load that he drowns himself like a pelican in an oil spill. But I was a fool to think that. Why have a sequel when you can just do the original all over again. (The new Titans will be out in 2008 by the way, so be ready to break out those metallic owl underoos and Pegasus sheets all over again.) But this whole Poseidon title did throw me off of the oh-so-familiar scent of remake for a minute. I mean they dropped the whole “adventure” part of the name, which I think was a totally deception. Does that mean that next year I will be watching just The Towering or Formers instead of The Towering Inferno or The Transformers? But that was only the beginning of my shock and disbelief of remaking the cheesy granddaddy of disaster movies. What was weirder was that I just saw a 2005 remake of this movie as a three part made for TV mini series starring Robocop, Soul Man, the corny white guy from Short Circuit, a Baldwin brother, and Rutger Hauer who hasn’t had a lead part since Ladyhawke. And that version of The Poseidon Adventure sucked worse than having Ike Turner for a step dad.
Apparently the dismal reality of that still wasn’t enough to stop Wolfgang Petersen from drafting a washed up Snake Pliskin, the narrator from Stand By Me, a Dillon brother and the poor man’s Matthew McConaghey, Josh Lucas, to star in his equally putrid high budget theatrical version. If you were somehow fortunate enough to avoid the three remakes and the terrible sequel, Beyond The Poseidon Adventure, starring Gidget, Shirley Partridge, Kojak and Karl Malden’s left nostril let me ruin what happens so that you never bother. The tidal wave from The Abyss flips the Titanic upside down and a group of survivors slowly die as they try to make their way to the bottom of the boat, which by the way is now the top of the boat in search of an exit or a hamburger. Excuse me while I swallow back the chunk of vomit that just bubbled up into the back of my throat. You have seen every single element of this movie before. It is more redundant and pointless than repeatedly using “breast feeding babies” as an insult.
Okay, not really a TV show, but part of a show that has gone too far. I liked the "X-files", but did I ever care that the "Red Shoe Diaries" guy didn’t like sunflower seeds and yet they made his character eat them all the time? Fuck no. Patrick Stewart on "Star Trek" was great. But just because the guy can make a book on tape interesting doesn’t mean that I will travel 400 miles and wait in a five hour line to have him sign a VHS copy of his made for TV "Moby Dick". The captain of the Enterprise just isn’t that important to me. I like a lot of these shows that garner cult like followings but that doesn’t mean I want to join a fucking cult.
So along comes "Lost", an intriguing show with the kind of underlying secret story going on that really makes the viewer want to know just what exactly is going on. I started watching because someone told me it was like "Gilligan's Island" with an invisible dinosaur. But then the hatch, and all the interlaced back stories, and weird signs and premonitions made me start looking for the clues and hints as to what this crazy show is really about. Well apparently I looked to hard this past Wednesday because I found one. A very deliberate and commercial one at that. During one of the ad breaks there was a commercial for the Hanso Foundation accompanied by a web address and a phone number. Curiosity got the better of me so my dumb ass called the phone number. Kinda reminded me of the days when I used to call 976 numbers to hear fat chicks pretend to be heavy breathing sexy young nubiles. Let me tell you right now the last thing you want to do is have a bad credit report showing that you owe 976-HOES $8000.00. Anyway, the phone line was basically an elaborately conceived extension of the shows back-story about the foundation that originated many of the weird happenings on Girl’s In Tight Jeans Island. Different voicemail boxes with little tidbits of information that sounded like they somehow might be important. I couldn’t figure it out.
Then I went to the web address offered. There were only 6 static screened TV sets and the message “obey”. So like a dumb ass I did. I sat there and cracked the code. Each set had to be clicked in the value of one of Hurley’s infamous numbers from Lost, which eventually gave me a clue and a secret link. That lead me to another site for the Hanso organization, which contained tons of what seemed like important information about the experiments they have done, and bios of the company execs. All of a sudden there was a ghost in the machine. Some creature named Persephone wanted my name and a code from me when I tried to sign up for the newsletter. And then the puzzles began, each solution revealing another tidbit of backstory. Then I realized hours had past, maybe it was days, and I had still learned almost nothing about the actual show. I had bought into the bullshit hook line and sinker.
So I did some research. Basically, “The Lost Experience” was conceived by the show’s producers as a new way to interact with fans. A giant Easter egg hunt was created across newspaper and television ads, secret phone numbers and internet puzzles for the sole purpose of giving rabid fans a chance to have just a split fraction more information than the casual viewer. But here’s the thing. You can’t solve these fucking puzzles. I got lucky with a couple of them. But the guys who came up with this know that these fans are totally fucking insane lard asses who have nothing better to do than sit in their mother’s basements and figure this shit out! One of the clues is a string of numbers that has to be converted to letters through a hexadecimal ASCII letter scheme, and when you’re finished with that little task then you have to re-arrange the fucking letters because they are a goddamn anagram. Another was a series of audio pulses that was actually Morse code. Without ten dozen fans sites competing to see who can figure this shit out first there would be no answers. Even after looking up most of the clue answers on the web I still felt like Michael Douglas in the Game. Half of the puzzles and codes aren’t even available yet. I realized just how fucking elaborate this whole thing really was, which meant one thing. Somebody had to be paying for this shit.
That was the real Easter egg hunt. But then it came to me like that Keyser Soze moment. When I thought back to the phone call I remember that the voicemail boxes were all Verizon. Makes sense. Verizon has more money than Whitney Houston's crack dealer and the phone thing was basically a paid ad for them. And then I remembered that flashing Obey message and the original website address www.subLYMONal.com. Lemon + Lime = Lymon. Add that to the sublimal message advertising and... Aha! Research shows that Sprite owns that fucking website. You know like “Obey your thirst”. All I could hear in my head was “You’ll put your eye out”. Just like a little orphan Annie decoder rings reveals that you should drink more Ovaltine, the Lost Experience is just one giant plot to get me to drink more Sprite. So, I bought a 12 pack today. Fuck, I should have just gone to that Trek convention in Poughkeepsie after all.
If you want be suckered like I was visit www.thehansofoundation.org or call 877-426-7674 and visit The Lost Experience section of www.thetailsection.com for all the latest game secrets and codes because you’ll never figure this shit out on your own. Now I have wasted your time like they wasted mine. Hah.
What? Did you want me to say something bad? I won’t do it. I can’t do it. Tool is fucking sweet. But I will tell you a little story that I heard back when I briefly lived in Ravenna, Ohio. You see Maynard James Keenan is from that piss hole of a town. And I can tell you with all honesty that there are only two worse places in the world, Hiroshima on August 6th 1945 and Gary Indiana on a Tuesday. It’s the kind of town that smells like someone just lit a match to cover the smell of a six on one gangbang with a fat chick and the Colts defensive line. It’s the kind of town where, “Omigod your son has a tail!” is a compliment. The kind of town where the Sunday sermon is based on Jerry Springer’s thought of the day. Anyway, Maynard had this friend who was a little nutty. This guy was having some minor issues with his lady friend, so he took her out in a field at night, blew her head off and then just sat there and listened to the crickets. Maynard took his friend's lighthearted dating adventures and turned them into the bizarre hidden track "Disgustipated" on Undertow. I hear there is also a Ravenna story behind that cow licking his own ass too, but I’d prefer not to insult anyone’s relatives. Speaking of which Maynard brings the disturbing personal touches to this new record too with the epic “Wings For Mary”; a song so long it makes “Maggot Brain” seem like an iTunes preview clip. They had to break it in to two songs just to fit it. But it’s worth it because the Tool frontman lets you voyeuristically listen as he deals with the issues of his mother’s 27 years of stroke induced paralysis and ultimate demise. Did I mention how shitty a town Ravenna was yet? My favorite song on the album, however, has to be “The Pot” though just because I love that the vocals sound like Arnold Drummond as the vocals screech “Whatchyu talkin’ ‘bout!” Maynard is angry, and weird, and determined with the backing of his bandmates to do things the way they see fit and it somehow makes for poignant, timely, topical albums that, god forbid, actually contain music. More than I can say for the Chili Peppers, but I’ll save that for next week.
Martin thought it would be fun to have a “Beat This Caption” feature on the site so here is your pilot program. Give me the best caption for any of these photos. If Charlie laughs at any of them, maybe we can get him to consider adding the feature into the next version of the website. By the way, the only time anyone knows for sure that Charlie has actually laughed is when someone told him that the Pope died, so good luck.
3. Mutha Fucka, that better be a mutha fuckin snake in yo fuckin pants.
MisterOrange
klowns
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Posted: 5/12/2006 6:13:40 AM
2) Sorry son, but to be a genuine klansman you need to be at least this tall.
MisterOrange
MoFo
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Posted: 5/12/2006 6:58:13 AM
What's that smell white boy? Goddamit! I just shat my pants!
MisterOrange
MoFo
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Posted: 5/12/2006 6:58:20 AM
3) What's that smell white boy? Goddamit! I just shat my pants!
deuce
so glad
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Post #: 5
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Posted: 5/12/2006 7:18:45 AM
i stopped watching lost.. tv is supposed to be mindless entertainment.. you give, i take.. now i've got to work, research and decode? no thanks.
tool's got chops, although i dont dig their music too much.. i cant remember you rating something so high, is the 4.5 a 1st?
1. "mathew brady is such a queen...."
2. overcoming dyslexia is required for a hood, dummy. from the top..
3. "mutha fucka, you tellin' me yo' poopin' these things out??'
N
Tool pisses me off
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Post #: 6
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Posted: 5/12/2006 7:49:11 AM
Not because they suck, but because they're so damn good and can't seem to figure out what to do with it. If you took the last two albums, cut all the filler and shitty tracks with 6 minute lead ins followed by a minute and a half of mumbled vocals, and put songs like Parabola, Ticks and Leaches, Lateralus, Vicarious, Jambi, The Pot, and even the Wings for Marie\10,000 days together on one cd it would be the best fucking album ever made. Instead it's absolutely amazing songs followed by complete shit and I'm skipping so much filler I feel like I'm getting ripped off paying for two cd's and getting one.
Stu
hypocrites
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Posted: 5/12/2006 7:58:41 AM
2. - Het! Which one of y'all would fuck Halle Barry?
JPM
Too Long
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Post #: 8
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Posted: 5/12/2006 8:41:06 AM
My ADD prevented me from finishing it. On a brighter note the dumbass that posted my e-mail address (which is legal) and then told people to SPAM it (which is not legal) will soon have to deal with some serious people.
It is one thing to fool around but another to tell people to break the law and evn tell them how i.e sign up this e-mail addy for gay porn.
Too bad this pathetic excuse for a website will take some heat also for allowing such morons to run wild.
Victor fuckin' French
Napalm.
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Post #: 9
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Posted: 5/12/2006 8:58:12 AM
You're gonna do what? Put a bullet in my head? Thank God (the boss). You don't have to wait for 2012 to do that. Just let me finish this piece of chicken.
RJD
JPM
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Post #: 10
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Posted: 5/12/2006 9:10:48 AM
Pathetic excuse for a website? Why do you visit it every day of your life? Stop being a bitch, you little fucking bitch.
Use the form at the right to log in for more options.
– Five Ears for awesome shit that makes me want to fight, fuck or kill! 
– Four Ears for well above average stuff that gives me a chubby
– Three Ears for well-rounded but average... like a white girl's ass
– Two Ears for subpar material that makes my crotch itch
– One Ear for shit that makes me want to fight, fuck, or kill for the wrong reasons.
– An added testicle for shit that is in between.
Was it wrong of me to think I was walking into the sequel to Clash Of The Titans? You know the Greek god of the ocean tormenting Harry Hamlin’s gay ass with his trident all around the world until he meets three topless sirens at the end of the universe played of course by Scarlett, Jessica, and Jessica (AKA Jo-albiehl, the tri-fecta) that make Poseidon instantly spurt such a huge load that he drowns himself like a pelican in an oil spill. But I was a fool to think that. Why have a sequel when you can just do the original all over again. (The new Titans will be out in 2008 by the way, so be ready to break out those metallic owl underoos and Pegasus sheets all over again.) But this whole Poseidon title did throw me off of the oh-so-familiar scent of remake for a minute. I mean they dropped the whole “adventure” part of the name, which I think was a totally deception. Does that mean that next year I will be watching just The Towering or Formers instead of The Towering Inferno or The Transformers? But that was only the beginning of my shock and disbelief of remaking the cheesy granddaddy of disaster movies. What was weirder was that I just saw a 2005 remake of this movie as a three part made for TV mini series starring Robocop, Soul Man, the corny white guy from Short Circuit, a Baldwin brother, and Rutger Hauer who hasn’t had a lead part since Ladyhawke. And that version of The Poseidon Adventure sucked worse than having Ike Turner for a step dad. 
Okay, not really a TV show, but part of a show that has gone too far. I liked the "X-files", but did I ever care that the "Red Shoe Diaries" guy didn’t like sunflower seeds and yet they made his character eat them all the time? Fuck no. Patrick Stewart on "Star Trek" was great. But just because the guy can make a book on tape interesting doesn’t mean that I will travel 400 miles and wait in a five hour line to have him sign a VHS copy of his made for TV "Moby Dick". The captain of the Enterprise just isn’t that important to me. I like a lot of these shows that garner cult like followings but that doesn’t mean I want to join a fucking cult.
What? Did you want me to say something bad? I won’t do it. I can’t do it. Tool is fucking sweet. But I will tell you a little story that I heard back when I briefly lived in Ravenna, Ohio. You see Maynard James Keenan is from that piss hole of a town. And I can tell you with all honesty that there are only two worse places in the world, Hiroshima on August 6th 1945 and Gary Indiana on a Tuesday. It’s the kind of town that smells like someone just lit a match to cover the smell of a six on one gangbang with a fat chick and the Colts defensive line. It’s the kind of town where, “Omigod your son has a tail!” is a compliment. The kind of town where the Sunday sermon is based on Jerry Springer’s thought of the day. Anyway, Maynard had this friend who was a little nutty. This guy was having some minor issues with his lady friend, so he took her out in a field at night, blew her head off and then just sat there and listened to the crickets. Maynard took his friend's lighthearted dating adventures and turned them into the bizarre hidden track "Disgustipated" on Undertow. I hear there is also a Ravenna story behind that cow licking his own ass too, but I’d prefer not to insult anyone’s relatives. Speaking of which Maynard brings the disturbing personal touches to this new record too with the epic “Wings For Mary”; a song so long it makes “Maggot Brain” seem like an iTunes preview clip. They had to break it in to two songs just to fit it. But it’s worth it because the Tool frontman lets you voyeuristically listen as he deals with the issues of his mother’s 27 years of stroke induced paralysis and ultimate demise. Did I mention how shitty a town Ravenna was yet? My favorite song on the album, however, has to be “The Pot” though just because I love that the vocals sound like Arnold Drummond as the vocals screech “Whatchyu talkin’ ‘bout!” Maynard is angry, and weird, and determined with the backing of his bandmates to do things the way they see fit and it somehow makes for poignant, timely, topical albums that, god forbid, actually contain music. More than I can say for the Chili Peppers, but I’ll save that for next week.
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