As the first year of my blog winds down to a close, I look back on all my posts and think aloud, 'wow, I was pissed'.
I'm sure you, the loyal reader, have often asked yourself why I am so easily upset. The answer is simple: you. You just keep pissing me off to no friggin' end. I hate you so very, very much.
As usual, I know what you're thinking. You are thinking, as you simultaneously shit, piss, and cream yourself, "oh dear sweet lord Darsh, how can I please you?" You wanna know how to stop pissing me off? Then keep readin'; I feel one of my half-rant, half-list things coming on.
1) GET OFF THE MESSAGE BOARDS. Remember when I used to complain about fat Goth chicks who read Twilight, or post their shitty poetry all over the forums? That was a beautiful era for me. I was never short of anything to write about. But these days, chubby female fans of My Chemical Romance have taken a backseat to Message-Board Homos. I hate people who post every fuckin' thing that passes through their empty skulls on a Message Board. I'm a gamer, and I like to look up cheat codes because cheating kicks ass, and nothing ruins it for everyone more than that one guy who has to post 'FUCK BUSH' on the Fable 2 page. Wow, buddy, way to be 'controversial', and 'hard-core'. Shut the fuck up, maggot. Yeah, fuck Bush and fuck you too. What does that even mean? Fuck Bush? You pussy. I hate people who start tirades about how much they hate the president when they don't even know what the fuck they're talking about. Wanna end 'the war'? Stop smoking pot and read a goddamn book. Bitch, I bet you don't even know the name of Barack Obama's Defense Secretary pick, and you trust him to cover your ass if Osama strikes again? Well, I hope your 'FUCK BUSH' post doubles as a bullet-proof vest, because that's all your ass will have.
2) PUT AWAY THE GUITAR. That's enough, John Mayer. I was going to Taco Bell the other night to pick up a few of those cinnamon-twisty things, and when I walk in, I start hearing an acoustic guitar being played... poorly. I wonder to myself, 'man, must be the new Dave Matthews single or some shit', until it starts getting louder the closer I get to the registers. When I get to the counter, I can barely order it's so loud. So I look past the fryers, and who do I see but some dumb rich kid smoking a joint and strumming his guitar. Seriously? It's bad enough I have to go to school with you bastards, but I can't even get a few twisty things without you ruining everything? Jesus Christ, you're on the tennis team! Stop pretending to be all brooding and emotional. Fuck you, you twat. Take off that stupid poncho and stop torturing that guitar before I impregnate your mother.
3) READ. I hate the illiterates. What's more, I hate their enablers. Whenever I go to the library, there's some homeless guy begging for change. So one day I ask him, 'dude, why don't you get a job?', and he says, 'dude, I'm not educated'. So I say, 'well, there's a library behind you, so why don't you educate yourself?', and he says, 'because I can't read'. And I ask, 'well, why can't you read?', and he says, 'because my PO says I don't have to.' You worthless piece of shit. Not only do you insult the economy by being an unemployed, homeless felon, but you have the gall to blame your own obsolescence on some Ivy League ass-hat. Needless to say I choked him to death with my force powers, because I am a Sith Lord. I then hunted down his PO and made him eat his own doo-doo. If you wanna be an alcoholic vagrant, that's fine by me. But don't you dare start begging on my street corners and blaming some jerk-off who gets paid in my tax dollars for your own uselessness. Kill the poor.
4)WORSHIP ME. You wanna see me upgrade my sight with some HTML or whatever the hell it's called? Then prove it. Sign up for one of the few remaining positions as a disciple(It's free), and you'll be blessed with e-mail updates for whenever I update the blog, and the joy of seeing me spend my blogger points on a site upgrade. You won't be disappointed. I know this because I say when you're disappointed.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
My Apology To Santa
Dear Santa,
I'm sorry you're a fat, crybaby pussy. I'm sorry you fill me with a hate so black light cannot escape its inky surface. I'm sorry you made me want to kill you so much. No hard feelings.
Love,
Spence Fiffield AKA 'Darsh'
P.S. You're welcome. For the apology, I mean. Also, to answer your question, yes, there are many things you can do to repay me for the time and effort that went into this apology. For example, a SPAS-12 Tactical Shotgun. It's a flower. Strange name for a flower, I know, but I think it's beautiful, and I'm sure you will too, as I jam it under your nose and ask you to sniff. I would also like a few elves. Specifically, the two elves from Fred Clause, the pasty guy and the hot chick. They'll carry my gu--flowers around, as I ask people to... smell them.
I would also like a handwritten letter from God, apologizing for all the times he's screwed me over. Like that one time he made me shoot my own Dad while I was trying to shoot you. Don't mean to be 'that guy', but I feel like that's only fair.
Finally, I'd like you to prove your unabashed apologetic feelings towards my end by challenging Barack Obama to a fist fight on CNN. This should be done before January 1st in order for you to receive full exoneration for your atrocities.
P.P.S. You should probably keep this as 'new', so you can remember what you have to do. :)
I'm sorry you're a fat, crybaby pussy. I'm sorry you fill me with a hate so black light cannot escape its inky surface. I'm sorry you made me want to kill you so much. No hard feelings.
Love,
Spence Fiffield AKA 'Darsh'
P.S. You're welcome. For the apology, I mean. Also, to answer your question, yes, there are many things you can do to repay me for the time and effort that went into this apology. For example, a SPAS-12 Tactical Shotgun. It's a flower. Strange name for a flower, I know, but I think it's beautiful, and I'm sure you will too, as I jam it under your nose and ask you to sniff. I would also like a few elves. Specifically, the two elves from Fred Clause, the pasty guy and the hot chick. They'll carry my gu--flowers around, as I ask people to... smell them.
I would also like a handwritten letter from God, apologizing for all the times he's screwed me over. Like that one time he made me shoot my own Dad while I was trying to shoot you. Don't mean to be 'that guy', but I feel like that's only fair.
Finally, I'd like you to prove your unabashed apologetic feelings towards my end by challenging Barack Obama to a fist fight on CNN. This should be done before January 1st in order for you to receive full exoneration for your atrocities.
P.P.S. You should probably keep this as 'new', so you can remember what you have to do. :)
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Gay: The New Retarded
I hate Entertainment Weekly. Matter of fact, I hate all magazines that don't focus primarily on video games or naked women. Y'know why? Good, then I needn't continue.
Oh? You don't know? I hate these pinko rags because they are tools of the liberal media. I, however, am a tool of justice. A big tool, one whose always jamming himself down your throat. Were it not for my brave, tireless efforts, we would surely have succumbed to the whim of the Blue States by now.
Consider this: none of the Red States in the Union allow gay marriage. Meanwhile, in the Blue States, there are at least TWO WHOLE STATES that permit gay marriage. That's two too many! The liberal agenda is smothering us with the gay agenda. And I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure the gay agenda involves guys fucking guys. Just puttin' that out there.
But is my crusade all in vain? Perhaps. The liberal media has control over everything we hear and see, such as the media, and other such things. They also have a major stake in Hollywood. Think I'm insane? A crazed conspiracy theorist? Take a look at some of history's biggest Oscar winners and judge for yourself:
1) Forrest Gump, winner for best picture in 1994. It raked in almost fifty million dollars in the US alone. Why? It featured Tom Hanks as a retard.
2) What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, nominee for three academy awards in 1992. It was highly praised by critics for Leonardo DiCaprio's heartwarming portrayal of a retarded boy. It brought in about twenty-five million domestic.
3)The Village, M. Night Shyamalan's first step towards mediocrity. It was hated by critics, but still was nominated for a Golden Globe because of Adrian Brody. Who'd he play, you ask? A retard!
Noticing a trend? If you play a retard on screen, you will get lots of money and award statues made out of cheap plastic. Still, those statues will get you a lot of poonanie.
This liberal slant has corrupted the once respectable screen-actors award circuit. Remember when actors had to actually try to win an award? I certainly do. Those days, however, are long gone, as all an actor must do to receive national recognition for his efforts is walk with a limp and say 'duh' a lot. And drool... drool a lot.
But as of late, the retard movies have been shafted. WHEW! What a relief, right? Maybe now Good Burger will finally get some props. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Nowadays, rather than impersonate a retard, one must play a gay guy. Case in point: Milk, a thoroughly mediocre film that includes very little of America's favorite dairy-based drink. This film is C+ at best, people. Yes, Sean Penn can act like a motherfucker, but still, this isn't Oscar worthy shit. Oh, what's that? He plays a gay dude? Holy shit! Give that man an Oscar!
See? Sounds pretty stupid when I say it, but not when Entertainment Weekly does, apparently. C'mon gang, we can do better than this. I say we boycott this clunker. Go out into town and form a picket line around all the theatres showing this film. Also, bring signs that say stuff like Get Gays Out Of Hollywood, or God Hates Fags. That way, people will take the time to understand and respect our struggle. And what are we struggling for? Not much. Just making actors work for their money.
Oh? You don't know? I hate these pinko rags because they are tools of the liberal media. I, however, am a tool of justice. A big tool, one whose always jamming himself down your throat. Were it not for my brave, tireless efforts, we would surely have succumbed to the whim of the Blue States by now.
Consider this: none of the Red States in the Union allow gay marriage. Meanwhile, in the Blue States, there are at least TWO WHOLE STATES that permit gay marriage. That's two too many! The liberal agenda is smothering us with the gay agenda. And I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure the gay agenda involves guys fucking guys. Just puttin' that out there.
But is my crusade all in vain? Perhaps. The liberal media has control over everything we hear and see, such as the media, and other such things. They also have a major stake in Hollywood. Think I'm insane? A crazed conspiracy theorist? Take a look at some of history's biggest Oscar winners and judge for yourself:
1) Forrest Gump, winner for best picture in 1994. It raked in almost fifty million dollars in the US alone. Why? It featured Tom Hanks as a retard.
2) What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, nominee for three academy awards in 1992. It was highly praised by critics for Leonardo DiCaprio's heartwarming portrayal of a retarded boy. It brought in about twenty-five million domestic.
3)The Village, M. Night Shyamalan's first step towards mediocrity. It was hated by critics, but still was nominated for a Golden Globe because of Adrian Brody. Who'd he play, you ask? A retard!
Noticing a trend? If you play a retard on screen, you will get lots of money and award statues made out of cheap plastic. Still, those statues will get you a lot of poonanie.
This liberal slant has corrupted the once respectable screen-actors award circuit. Remember when actors had to actually try to win an award? I certainly do. Those days, however, are long gone, as all an actor must do to receive national recognition for his efforts is walk with a limp and say 'duh' a lot. And drool... drool a lot.
But as of late, the retard movies have been shafted. WHEW! What a relief, right? Maybe now Good Burger will finally get some props. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Nowadays, rather than impersonate a retard, one must play a gay guy. Case in point: Milk, a thoroughly mediocre film that includes very little of America's favorite dairy-based drink. This film is C+ at best, people. Yes, Sean Penn can act like a motherfucker, but still, this isn't Oscar worthy shit. Oh, what's that? He plays a gay dude? Holy shit! Give that man an Oscar!
See? Sounds pretty stupid when I say it, but not when Entertainment Weekly does, apparently. C'mon gang, we can do better than this. I say we boycott this clunker. Go out into town and form a picket line around all the theatres showing this film. Also, bring signs that say stuff like Get Gays Out Of Hollywood, or God Hates Fags. That way, people will take the time to understand and respect our struggle. And what are we struggling for? Not much. Just making actors work for their money.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Capture The Kringle
The gayest yuletime is upon us. Cursed are we, as Mother Earth has shown her disdain for us as of late with icy winds and plain ice as well. I know what you're thinking; fuck Mother Earth. My friend, you are correct. If I had my way, I'd rip this crusty old bitch a new orifice. Alas, I'm just one man.
And that's not all this godless season brings about: the yuletime brings about Yules like there's no tomorrow. I hate the holidays. Every day I don't have to talk to some old skank my Grandpa picked up during WWII is a good one. Xmas is the one day where I actually can't do anything about this obligation. But don't call me lazy; I've tried, man. Last year I gave my Grandmother my Grandfather. Of course, my Grandfather had been dead for two years, so he was looking a little malnourished. Also, dragging him up from the brittle birthing canal of Frau Gaia left him a little grass-stained, but other than that, he was in reasonable condition for a used gift. But did that piss off my Grandma enough to leave me alone? Hell no. The bitch refuses to die. This year, I'm giving her a gun and one bullet, alongside a note that says 'GO DIE'. I'm hoping she won't remember I gave that to her for her birthday as well.
But the worst part of Xmas is that fat white faggot Santa. I hate you, Santa. Or should I call you Claus? Sounds like someone's got a little German in him. You know who else was German? Hitler. Just saying.
Each year that blob of bright red gaiety (not 'happiness' gaiety either; the fruitcake gaiety) forcibly penetrates our homes in search of children whom he can titillate and tantalize with gifts and very phallic candy canes so that he can gain their trust. That's all well and good until he starts to abuse that trust. Suddenly, Santa arrives twice a year, this time without any presents. Seems Claus is a little light on rent. Maybe you could help him out? Soon, he's knocking on your door once a month, looking for food and money, and oh by the way is your daughter eighteen yet? He's a boil that needs to be removed from the buttcheeks of this great country. Please note that this has nothing to do with the Xbox 360 he gypped me out of a few years back, or the painful humiliation associated with buying my own goddamn Xbox. No, this hatred, like most of mine, is derived from my childhood.
I was a spry, youthful seven year old when I decided to kidnap Claus. After all, what child doesn't want to blackmail and extort a jolly old elf into giving him free toys? So I sat in front of the fireplace with my dad's Winchester .357, just sort of cleaning it, and loading it, and laying on my back in the flue and pointing it up the chimney. Y'know, kid's stuff. The fat bastard stood me up. Homo. The only person I got to shoot that Xmas was my Dad, who dressed up like Claus and snuck up on me. Big mistake, Dad.
So this year, as you suffer through torments unspeakable during this most Brutal Yule, I ask my loyal followers (that's you, chubby) to help me murder Claus once and for all. Put bear traps in your fireplaces, hide pungee stakes under your tree, and stick a few live Wolverines in your stockings. This year, let's band together and end the madness. This year, we CAPTURE THE KRINGLE!
And that's not all this godless season brings about: the yuletime brings about Yules like there's no tomorrow. I hate the holidays. Every day I don't have to talk to some old skank my Grandpa picked up during WWII is a good one. Xmas is the one day where I actually can't do anything about this obligation. But don't call me lazy; I've tried, man. Last year I gave my Grandmother my Grandfather. Of course, my Grandfather had been dead for two years, so he was looking a little malnourished. Also, dragging him up from the brittle birthing canal of Frau Gaia left him a little grass-stained, but other than that, he was in reasonable condition for a used gift. But did that piss off my Grandma enough to leave me alone? Hell no. The bitch refuses to die. This year, I'm giving her a gun and one bullet, alongside a note that says 'GO DIE'. I'm hoping she won't remember I gave that to her for her birthday as well.
But the worst part of Xmas is that fat white faggot Santa. I hate you, Santa. Or should I call you Claus? Sounds like someone's got a little German in him. You know who else was German? Hitler. Just saying.
Each year that blob of bright red gaiety (not 'happiness' gaiety either; the fruitcake gaiety) forcibly penetrates our homes in search of children whom he can titillate and tantalize with gifts and very phallic candy canes so that he can gain their trust. That's all well and good until he starts to abuse that trust. Suddenly, Santa arrives twice a year, this time without any presents. Seems Claus is a little light on rent. Maybe you could help him out? Soon, he's knocking on your door once a month, looking for food and money, and oh by the way is your daughter eighteen yet? He's a boil that needs to be removed from the buttcheeks of this great country. Please note that this has nothing to do with the Xbox 360 he gypped me out of a few years back, or the painful humiliation associated with buying my own goddamn Xbox. No, this hatred, like most of mine, is derived from my childhood.
I was a spry, youthful seven year old when I decided to kidnap Claus. After all, what child doesn't want to blackmail and extort a jolly old elf into giving him free toys? So I sat in front of the fireplace with my dad's Winchester .357, just sort of cleaning it, and loading it, and laying on my back in the flue and pointing it up the chimney. Y'know, kid's stuff. The fat bastard stood me up. Homo. The only person I got to shoot that Xmas was my Dad, who dressed up like Claus and snuck up on me. Big mistake, Dad.
So this year, as you suffer through torments unspeakable during this most Brutal Yule, I ask my loyal followers (that's you, chubby) to help me murder Claus once and for all. Put bear traps in your fireplaces, hide pungee stakes under your tree, and stick a few live Wolverines in your stockings. This year, let's band together and end the madness. This year, we CAPTURE THE KRINGLE!
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Videogame Version
Fans of mine, rejoice. I'll soon be making sweet, passionate love to your Xbox 360s.
For the uninitiated, I have saturated the media with a nice, creamy load of awesomeness. And though this load may be hard to swallow, I assure you, it be the truth. First I conquered your computer, then your local cinema of choice (see 'The Movie Version'), and now you can take me home and stick me where the sun don't shine: in your Xbox. Of course, if you have, like, a special see-through Xbox, I guess the sun might shine there. But it shouldn't, Xboxes don't do well in direct sunlight.
What kind of videogame is this, you ask? The best kind, I answer. The kind made by a true videogame fan: some Korean guy named Hungh. Hungh plays Starcraft 24/7; who better to make my videogame for me? Sure, I'll be giving my input at key times, but Hungh's the one doing the real work. It's called outsourcing, children, and it saves money. Look it up on Wikipedia.
What kind of content can we expect, you ask. Who's we? Got a mouse in your pocket? Fine, I'll spill the beans. I'll let the cat out of the bag. I'll let the cat eat the beans. I'll put the beans back in the bag. My game will feature constant full-frontal nudity. This will garner and AO rating from the ESRB, no doubt, but when have I ever cared what the fuck a bunch of fat old skanks on their periods think? The game shall also feature Vikings: lots and lots of naked Vikings. You will play as Xavier, the last Baltic Viking. Yes, Xavier is a Spanish name, what of it?
Anyhoo, Xavier will run through the game world, naked of course, slaying trolls and dragons and demons and Swedes. Mostly Swedes, though. Then, he'll invade Canada and hunt the French out of existence. But the in-game experience will also feature numerous innovations. For instance, instead of a health bar, Xavier will have a Boner-Gauge. When his manhood goes limp, he'll stop giving a fuck about whatever the hell he's doing and go take a nap. But if he should find some fly honey in a skimpy bear pelt and bang the shit out of her, the Boner-Gauge goes right back up. The Boner-Gauge also increase every time Xavier kills something.
But with what, right? A game like this would suck dong without cool weapons. Well, since Xavier's going up against some pretty badass monsters, like Draculas, Robot-Draculas, and Godzilla, he'll be equipped with some awesome Viking shit. Like lasers, for instance, and machineguns with chainsaws on the front. Also, he has a special crossbow that shoots chainsaws with grenades inside them. It will be called the Badass Mutha 4000, and will be the coolest weapon ever.
Look for my videogame, titled My Videogame, to hit stores on December 11, 2012. I chose that day, because for some reason, people think that's when the world will end. Bullshit. These are the same people that watch The Number 23 and look for secret messages. The only message in that movie is no secret at all: Jim Carrey's career is dead. Just look at Yes Man. That looks worse than the Miley Cyrus concert movie.
For the uninitiated, I have saturated the media with a nice, creamy load of awesomeness. And though this load may be hard to swallow, I assure you, it be the truth. First I conquered your computer, then your local cinema of choice (see 'The Movie Version'), and now you can take me home and stick me where the sun don't shine: in your Xbox. Of course, if you have, like, a special see-through Xbox, I guess the sun might shine there. But it shouldn't, Xboxes don't do well in direct sunlight.
What kind of videogame is this, you ask? The best kind, I answer. The kind made by a true videogame fan: some Korean guy named Hungh. Hungh plays Starcraft 24/7; who better to make my videogame for me? Sure, I'll be giving my input at key times, but Hungh's the one doing the real work. It's called outsourcing, children, and it saves money. Look it up on Wikipedia.
What kind of content can we expect, you ask. Who's we? Got a mouse in your pocket? Fine, I'll spill the beans. I'll let the cat out of the bag. I'll let the cat eat the beans. I'll put the beans back in the bag. My game will feature constant full-frontal nudity. This will garner and AO rating from the ESRB, no doubt, but when have I ever cared what the fuck a bunch of fat old skanks on their periods think? The game shall also feature Vikings: lots and lots of naked Vikings. You will play as Xavier, the last Baltic Viking. Yes, Xavier is a Spanish name, what of it?
Anyhoo, Xavier will run through the game world, naked of course, slaying trolls and dragons and demons and Swedes. Mostly Swedes, though. Then, he'll invade Canada and hunt the French out of existence. But the in-game experience will also feature numerous innovations. For instance, instead of a health bar, Xavier will have a Boner-Gauge. When his manhood goes limp, he'll stop giving a fuck about whatever the hell he's doing and go take a nap. But if he should find some fly honey in a skimpy bear pelt and bang the shit out of her, the Boner-Gauge goes right back up. The Boner-Gauge also increase every time Xavier kills something.
But with what, right? A game like this would suck dong without cool weapons. Well, since Xavier's going up against some pretty badass monsters, like Draculas, Robot-Draculas, and Godzilla, he'll be equipped with some awesome Viking shit. Like lasers, for instance, and machineguns with chainsaws on the front. Also, he has a special crossbow that shoots chainsaws with grenades inside them. It will be called the Badass Mutha 4000, and will be the coolest weapon ever.
Look for my videogame, titled My Videogame, to hit stores on December 11, 2012. I chose that day, because for some reason, people think that's when the world will end. Bullshit. These are the same people that watch The Number 23 and look for secret messages. The only message in that movie is no secret at all: Jim Carrey's career is dead. Just look at Yes Man. That looks worse than the Miley Cyrus concert movie.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hey, -Core Kids... I FUCKED YOUR MOTHERS!
Dear -Core Kids,
May I first take the time to thank you for all you've done for me. I really would not be so angry and diatribe-prone were it not for your tireless efforts. You really have gone the extra mile in pissing me off. Not only do you dress like twelve-year-old girls, bring backpacks to metal shows, shout requests to the band, make snide, pseudo-intellectual comments to some drunk chick in order to get her pants off, and listen to shit music; you give so much back to the community. You give me something to hate, which in turn keeps me from hating small children at the park, which in turn hinders the forward progression of my arrest record.
I would also like to thank Encyclopaedia Metallum for a) misspelling their own name, and b) giving me a new site to jerk-off to. Not only is this horrible, horrible website touting itself as the new home for all things metal despite the fact that nine times out of ten it is wrong, but it also gives -Core kids a place to BLOG. We all know those are evil, right kids? (except mine)
I was trying to find a review of United Abominations, last years Megadeth album. Yes, Megadeth rules and Metallica drools cum all over my brand new shag carpet, we know that. Bu apparently some asswipe named 'the Ghoul' disagrees. May I quote? Please note that even if you say aloud, 'no', I'm still going to do it. As my great grandfather once said just before he shot himself, 'no matter how many times she says no, don't stop dry humping'. Words to live by, people.
Seriously, who does Dave (Mustaine) think he is? This album is just modern rock with a metal mask on. The songs are just verse/chorus/verse/chorus/solo/chorus; there's no imagination here.
First of all, thank you for being a prissy little ass-sniffer with the fucking audacity to talk about Mr. Dave Mustaine like you know him. That really helps get the subjective opinion thing across. Second of all, as per your comments towards the song structure, you apparently didn't hear half the album, because shit was flying like the Luftwaffe. These solos are tasty as fuck. Dave Mustaine might as well change his name to Shreddy Krueger, 'cause I had Nightmares about his metal.
Another gem:
These 'lyrics' are just the rantings of a pseudo-political burnt out rockstar.
And your review is just the ranting of a pimple-faced virgin who never got Dave Mustaine's autograph. I did; he signed my left man-boob. It was glorious. Dude, I feel sorry for you. I mean, you spent money on an album that kicks ass like Chuck Norris, and yet you can't step beyond your personal vendettas against Monsieur Mustaine enough to enjoy the sweet riffs. Maybe you should put out an album... oh, wait! You aren't musically talented at all! I forgot.
In conclusion, I'd like to turn my attention back to the -Core kids. You are a bunch of bleeding vaginas. Stuff a tampon in it and realize once and for all that you aren't metal. If you can't shred like a cheese grater, slap that bass like I slap yo mama's ass, beat those skins like they owe you money, or crush mics like the Hulk, then get off the fuckin' stage. And also stop screaming. Screamo needs to die like Lance Armstrong needs his second nut back.
May I first take the time to thank you for all you've done for me. I really would not be so angry and diatribe-prone were it not for your tireless efforts. You really have gone the extra mile in pissing me off. Not only do you dress like twelve-year-old girls, bring backpacks to metal shows, shout requests to the band, make snide, pseudo-intellectual comments to some drunk chick in order to get her pants off, and listen to shit music; you give so much back to the community. You give me something to hate, which in turn keeps me from hating small children at the park, which in turn hinders the forward progression of my arrest record.
I would also like to thank Encyclopaedia Metallum for a) misspelling their own name, and b) giving me a new site to jerk-off to. Not only is this horrible, horrible website touting itself as the new home for all things metal despite the fact that nine times out of ten it is wrong, but it also gives -Core kids a place to BLOG. We all know those are evil, right kids? (except mine)
I was trying to find a review of United Abominations, last years Megadeth album. Yes, Megadeth rules and Metallica drools cum all over my brand new shag carpet, we know that. Bu apparently some asswipe named 'the Ghoul' disagrees. May I quote? Please note that even if you say aloud, 'no', I'm still going to do it. As my great grandfather once said just before he shot himself, 'no matter how many times she says no, don't stop dry humping'. Words to live by, people.
Seriously, who does Dave (Mustaine) think he is? This album is just modern rock with a metal mask on. The songs are just verse/chorus/verse/chorus/solo/chorus; there's no imagination here.
First of all, thank you for being a prissy little ass-sniffer with the fucking audacity to talk about Mr. Dave Mustaine like you know him. That really helps get the subjective opinion thing across. Second of all, as per your comments towards the song structure, you apparently didn't hear half the album, because shit was flying like the Luftwaffe. These solos are tasty as fuck. Dave Mustaine might as well change his name to Shreddy Krueger, 'cause I had Nightmares about his metal.
Another gem:
These 'lyrics' are just the rantings of a pseudo-political burnt out rockstar.
And your review is just the ranting of a pimple-faced virgin who never got Dave Mustaine's autograph. I did; he signed my left man-boob. It was glorious. Dude, I feel sorry for you. I mean, you spent money on an album that kicks ass like Chuck Norris, and yet you can't step beyond your personal vendettas against Monsieur Mustaine enough to enjoy the sweet riffs. Maybe you should put out an album... oh, wait! You aren't musically talented at all! I forgot.
In conclusion, I'd like to turn my attention back to the -Core kids. You are a bunch of bleeding vaginas. Stuff a tampon in it and realize once and for all that you aren't metal. If you can't shred like a cheese grater, slap that bass like I slap yo mama's ass, beat those skins like they owe you money, or crush mics like the Hulk, then get off the fuckin' stage. And also stop screaming. Screamo needs to die like Lance Armstrong needs his second nut back.
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