Saturday, December 15, 2012

The United States of Guns

I hate guns. I used to own several. Growing up in Texas, I went through a young phase of hunting mostly for birds -- doves, quail, ducks and geese. I could never quite get into deer hunting -- didn't want to have to gut and clean them. It seemed too cruel and messy.

As I have evolved as a human being, I now don't want any part of killing any kind of sentient creature, human or animal. It's not good karma.


I do not want to overly disparage true gun-owning hunters, but if you ask me, a bow and arrow is perfect for hunting. You have to stalk your prey, look for droppings, paw prints and marks on trees.

But what do most "hunters" in America do? They get in their big polluting trucks and SUVs and go tearing through the wilderness, slide their fat asses and big beer bellies up into a redneck deer blind with feeders around it, and sit there lethargically until Bambi and mother come up and they blast away. "Look! Got him!"

There is no doubt that we are the Nation of The Gun. United States of Guns. Seriously. I am reminded of the extinct Passenger Pigeon and the nearly extinct Buffalo that used to fly and roam abundantly in North America until they shot them all into oblivion in the sky and from trains.

Many years ago, when I was a crime reporter for The Dallas Morning News and saw the carnage of human gun death up close and personal on a daily basis, I got rid of all my guns. I had three shotguns, two pistols and three rifles.

To my dismay, I have since witnessed the ever-increasing obsessive love affair that Americans have with bigger, more powerful and more deadly guns. People I have worked with, friends and neighbors, buying AK-47-style assault rifles and Glocks and other ridiculous warfare-manufactured instruments of death for shits and giggles at the gun range.

It's a fun hobby here in the USA, isn't it? Yuppies and families love to go the gun range and blast away with their stupid fucking guns.

For the men, I suppose it makes them feel as though they have a bigger penis or something? For the women, a sense of empowerment?

It astounds me. Guns are manufactured to kill. So many Americans are motivated by media-delivered messages of fear: fear of "bad guys," fear of the government, fear of terrorists, etc. I have boiled that all down in its most simple essence: Fear of The Other.

And in the end, this stockpiling love affair with guns and ammo has given us all a lot more to fear about.

More than we ever could imagine.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Find Bigfoot? Nah!


Should I be amazed that there is a reality TV show called Finding Bigfoot, in which the aptly-named host Matthew Moneymaker, strung out no less than 18 episodes from 2011 to March 2012 that, in the final analysis, did not "Find Bigfoot?"

Tell me that I should not be flabbergasted that real-life television viewers, apparently in use of their own brains, actually tune into this show thinking that Mr. Moneymaker is indeed somehow on the trail of the factual Bigfoot, an imposingly massive creature who, against all odds, manages to tromp freely about in places like freakin' Ohio and other highly populated American states detected only by sporadic eyewitness sightings that are uncannily never documented on film or by any other reliable means of evidential recording. 

I shouldn't laugh heartily at the show when these guys use night vision green-view gimmickry to make it look scary when they howl absurdly in the darkness, pretending as though this is the way that the Bigfoot creatures scream at each other and cavort about in the wild? Click here to view this on YouTube. Good. I feel bad for snickering so uncontrollably at what I initially suspected was hilariously blatant bullshittery.

Ok, good. I'm glad there is no reason to be amazed at the sheer ridiculous, obscenely grotesque stupidity of the American public for watching this show. (These would be the same sublimely idiotic folks who listen to Rush Limbaugh and make Faux News this nation's most highly rated "news" network, after all.)

This reality TV show on the Discovery Channel makes perfect sense, right? 


Because Bigfoot really does exist, correct?

Right.


Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Out of East Texas Kuntry Nite Creepeth Da Payne Prangler. It Merges With Genius MetroPlexBrains While Tucker Skis Tahoe.

VROOoooooooMmm! Outta Da Night!

Out of the East Texas Night, it jaunted forthwith to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex to merge with the minds of Adam Ballinger and David Branch.

Tucker was skiing about Lake Tahoe and texted to us as we visited in Texas to discuss our plans for a fine venture.
Tahoe Tucker






Frozen Chicken Cheez Tots. Yum!




The PMMF Custodian was bothered somewhat by the consumers consuming, so serious about their gol-darn-dang-damned Frozen Chicken Cheez Tots on sale at Walmart, but he nonetheless shot forth in the piney night-breezed kuntry pastures as the shittoheads slumbered, eager to meet with the Chancellor (Adam Ballinger) and the Admiral (David Branch).




He zoomed through the forestry night wind airs, stopping occasionally to perform routine reconnaissance calibrations,  eventually shambling through yonder wood to emerge upon what is known as Interstate 20 from East Texas to Dallas.
This is Your Captain Speaking
Come Hither Yonder Payne Captain

The Payne Dawg (PMMF Custodian) was determined. Let us not be misunderstood: The PMMF Custodian (Payne Dawg) is a monstrously stealthy night rambler. He is by golly gonna get there to do it to it.



Misty Breeze Spook Nights!









Such demented plans were formed. Such global abrasions are forthcoming. We have got this thing figured out and it's got great good steady winding thunderous wheels of awe and wonder and blasphemy for you. It is all good. Trust us. We are, in the final analysis, lovers. Not fighters.






Chancellor and Da Admiral

But gol-dang-dad-diddly-KA-POW, are we ever throwed off. Just Notice.

Just Notice.
 

And the animal branded image of Just Notice shall be ... the Proboscis Monkey of Borneo. This is very key.

White Capped Tuck Prince

Just Notice is The Fearsome Foursome coming to you and your vision screens, whether it be via Vitreous Membrane or High-Definition Multimedia Interfaces.
Assemble this, you American Walmart Scooter Diabetic PoopTart. We made this in China for you. Yes. You.












Nite Kuntry Shack


Either way.

Just Notice.

You will see us.

Outside your kuntry cabin as we be prowlin' ...

City Lit Laser Screen Nights







Or on your city-lit home laser screeens you will be seen by us.

Just Notice.

Friday, April 6, 2012

The Story of Impulse. Circa 1975.


CHRIS PAYNE
January 31

Impulse. The band leader on the top right is being pursued by unseen entities. (The same entities who have possessed the guy in the middle.)

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DAVID BRANCH
January 31 at 5:45pm · Unlike ·  1

His look, combined with the conspicuous (faux?) wood paneling, really provide some deep insight as to what exactly happened here. Judging by the paneling they must be in a trailer, possibly one a contractor would use on a construction site. The look, i think, came as a result of the realization, on the part of the band leader, that the construction worker who just walked in the door is actually a member of the chart-topping group the Village People, and that the promise which lured Impulse there in the first place, that they would "play a little music, take some amateur photographs, and just generally relax and do whatever comes natural" might have meant something entirely different to the other parties involved.

This horror can only be fully appreciated when one understands that it was augmented by the realization, on the part of the band leader, that his decision to grow a mustache and unbutton his shirt to show off his crucifix-charmed necklace, while intended to come off as a masculine, devil-may-care look (perhaps channeling Tony Iommi?), was likely understood to by the aforementioned Village Persons be a display of comfortable and flaming homosexuality.

Secondly, his look speaks to his subsequent realization, in that moment, that his bandmates seem to be "down" with this rather sordid turn of events, and possibly were in on the entire thing in the first place. Given these facts, one can possibly infer that these realizations were followed by some, even more soul-crushing--firstly that the generation of people to follow would certainly mistake his mustachioed and bare-chested look as an obvious sign of his homosexuality, as the Village People did, and secondly, that this moment was being immortalized on film, people are going to laugh at Impulse, and more importantly him, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

But there is one thing he can do, to avoid the compounding regret that will inevitably come from a sticky trailer-tryst with the Village People. He can vault himself through a window, and onto the ground below. His AMC Gremlin is parked just on the other side of the gravel lot. His synapses begin firing at triple speed and, after some quick calculations of trajectory he lunges for the window, and into the annals of history. The End.

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DAVID BRANCH
January 31 at 5:46pm · Unlike ·  1

No, no, no. Ninja edit: It should have read "The End???"

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CHRIS PAYNE
February 1 at 3:40pm · Like ·  1

The story of Impulse, of course, begins with ... an impulse. It was a dark impulse, indeed, that begat the Krankowski Twins, pictured from left to middle, when one Kimberly Krankowski, on the fateful evening of September 17, 1955, met a mysterious drifter known only as "Vince" at a Bill Haley & The Comets show in Dayton, Ohio, for an short-lived yet explosive tryst in the back seat of a 1953 Ford Crestline.

The impulses of the Krankowski Twins, Tim and Alex, grew inexorably darker as youngsters. Tim, far left, was the oddly affected Asbergers boy whose tinker-toy and lego constructions were meticulously and maliciously assembled in the fashion of ancient pagan shrines and demonic receiving stations, as he rocked back and forth on the green shag carpeted floor, pulled to and fro methodically by unseen mystical strings. His twin brother, Alex, in middle, had an early fascination with spells and wizards, which grew into his inevitable self identity as the impish Sorcerer Prince of Athas, whose abilities to destroy and defile come from his withering spells of plagues and vermin infestations, including Acid Fogs, the Yellow Anger of the Tiger Pustule, the Hungry Buzzard Maw, and, of course, the Trance of Infernal Sphinter.

At home after school, while their single mother, Kimberly, worked late as a bookkeeper at a small insurance agency, the Krankowski Twins would practice their instruments rapturously, inspired by the works of Uriah Heap and Blue Oyster Cult: Tim, with his garage-sale 1970 Hohn electric guitar, and Alex pounding feverishly on his Slingerland drum kit purchased with his mother's tax refund check. Whilst playing, each of the twins' rudimentary musical efforts would, after many aborted abominations, begin to coagulate into distinctly syncopated yet still somehow offbeat mechanical rhythms, with Alex's crude tribal tin-pan thrashings, and Tim's ham-handed, slashing bursts transmitting in unison to produce primordial sonic impulses that, while hideous noise to most ears, could also be a coaxingly subliminal, sonorous enticement to others whose minds had sufficient pliability to be tuned into the darkest realms of The 17 Outer Planes and their hosts of demons and devils and celestial deities. (Most notably, the hoary Yugoloths from the Wasting Tower of Khin-Oin, as well as other fiendish entities emanating from that 11th Plane of Peril ... including ... yes, the Vermin King.)

But one piece was missing. The Krankowski Twins' siren call of maddeningly disharmonious sonic clamor needed but one more key human cerebral cortex to complete the imperious summoning that was taking form in their suburban Ohio basement in January 1975. The unholy triumvirate was incomplete until the sounds from the land of no melodies seduced one Stuart McAdams, pictured top right, whose high-pitched banshee voice was bitter bile in the neighboring McAdams household, particularly with his father, George McAdams , whose own faith struggled alongside his son's insufferable love of ungodly rock music.

And on the evening of the publicity photo we see the fatalistic image of everlasting perpetual dread. The moment of the final earthly Impulse. We see the horror upon Stuart's marijuana-addled face. Note Tim's bucolic bliss, already enraptured and well at home on the 11th plane's vast gray wastelands of syncopated demon hordes, rising and falling, drooling and humming to the time-stop chord progressions of the apocalyptic symphonies of Obox-Ob, the King of Vermin. And Alex, he also is entranced, of course. His soul is finally a vice-grip rapture of eternal off-beat drum fills.

Stuart is next. The moment of realization is upon him. He looks off camera, seeing that the spinning vivid obscenity of Obox-Ob is materializing, threatening to consume him. The consummation of the unholy summoning is only seconds away. Already, Stuart is beginning to see much of Obox-Ob's hideous form, a massive platter-shaped centipede with three scorpion-like tails serving as his heads, one of which is curiously humanoid at the tip of his segmented tail, and opens its gaping maw to roar blasphemous litanies with a probing razor-edged, purple tongue snapping to and fro to taste the new earthly air. Behind him, Stuart sees the shapes of the Master Yugoloths, hears their keening shrieks of approval.

And into earthly obscurity goes Impulse. And into the portal go the Krankowski Twins and Stuart McAdams. Forever syncopated into the shrill disharmonious cacophony of the 11th Plane.
----------------------------------------------------------------

DAVID BRANCH
February 1 at 7:45pm · Unlike ·  1

I almost went in a "Russian gangster" direction with him too. He sorta has that look. Like he's been doin tons of blow in a Moscow discotheque and just realized he's about to be sold as a sex slave to a wealthy petro-state sheik
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CHRIS PAYNE
February 1 at 7:47pm ·

Haha! That would been an excellent angle. He is dispatched with into the underworld slave trade after it is discovered that Impulse will sell no records.

The CEO and The Chupacabra


He is the epitome of wanton American corporate greed.

You've seen him, always smiling with his red rubber face and fake white pearly caps.

Constantly on his Bluetooth barking orders to his underlings, rolling around country clubs on a golf cart and sending out his slobbering missives. Bragging about his tax shelters and offshore accounts.

He dresses gaudily in peach and pink polo golf shirts and slacks and loafers, with ridiculous Grecian-dyed hair and stoopid alma matter college ringed nuggets on his fat fingers. His ruddy countenance is the decadent face of too many facelifts from his crony golf pal plastic surgeon, who also performs cosmetic procedures on his business cronies, slathered in too much reeking cologne, and on their trophy wives, who are materialistic big-fake-boobed shopping fashionista airhead soccer moms, driving around in big gas-guzzling luxury SUV vehicles and spoiling their rotten punk over-privileged teenaged children.

His time is coming.
A most monstrous comeuppance awaits. 

For in spite of all the rosy palmed lobbyist handshakes, and the atrocious "hunting" expeditions with his fat beer-bellied fucktwat business friends, sitting knee to knee, wheezing and laughing at stoopid racist jokes while holding up their rifles on the seats ATR vehicles and four-wheel trucks trudging through wealthy big biz game preserves stocked with exotic foreign animals who amble up unknowingly to be blasted by corporate pigs, the people are more plentiful and righteous. 

The people will have their voice. 




And the monsters of his ill-gotten greedy gains will devour his flesh in the borderlands.


And he will scream his pitiful terrorized pleas in the hot hard earthen dirt, while his assets are seized, his children are left bankrupt, and his spray-tanned fake-titted, shop-a-holic trophy wife is left penniless and has to work for minimum wages at Wal-Mart.

The Chupacabra cometh.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Modern Mythos. Contemporary Legends.

Only two of the prisoners were found sane enough to be hanged, and the rest were committed to various institutions. All denied a part in the ritual murders, and averred that the killing had been done by Black Winged Ones which had come to them from their immemorial meeting-place in the haunted wood. But of those mysterious allies no coherent account could ever be gained. What the police did extract, came mainly from the immensely aged mestizo named Castro, who claimed to have sailed to strange ports and talked with undying leaders of the cult in the mountains of China.
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Look about you, Clarke. You see the mountain, and hill following after hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river. You see me standing here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that all these things—yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky to the solid ground beneath our feet--I say that all these are but dreams and shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes. There is a real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this vision, beyond these 'chases in Arras, dreams in a career,'beyond them all as beyond a veil. I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted that veil; but I do know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it lifted this very night from before another's eyes. You may think this all strange nonsense; it may be strange, but it is true, and the ancients knew what lifting the veil means. They called it seeing the god Pan.
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CHUPACABRA: The ancient and dreaded evil Mexican spirit beast. Centuries ago, the Spanish Conquistador Francisco Vásquez de Coronado (1510-1554) savagely murdered a native American tribal leader, killing him, his family and dogs and farm animals by sword.

This brutal slaughter was ordered so Coronado could take over the tribe's land, which was thought to have gold and precious gemstones in its creek beds and red clay sodden earth.

The spirit of the ancient tribal leader, Chupacabra, throughout the ages has sought vengeance by cursing, killing, maiming and traumatizing interlopers into his native lands, including fat American gringos with publicly traded corporations, U.S. military operatives, U.S. law enforcement agents, and narco criminals from drug cartels. All of these fat greedy intruders, like Coronado before them, seek to profit off of Chupacabra's rightful ancestral lands. They will be punished. Hideously punished.


When top-secret U.S.military biochemical 
genetic engineering experiments went terribly wrong at Mexican factories and compounds owned by American chemical corporations, packs of grotesquely savage monsters escaped into the Mexican wilderness.

These mutant creatures soon became enchanted by the ancient evil spirit of Chupacabra, who took a liking to the misbegotten creatures, granting them special supernatural and mystical powers to do his vengeful bidding, giving rise to the modern-day popular cryptozoological myth of  "chupacabras," the sightings and alleged eyewitness accountings of which have been reported in the news media and on television as an amusing entertainment for skeptics for many years.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Critical Aspects. Essential Tasks.


A Key Occult Dwelling in Troup, Texas, with Decapitated Head Hanging from Tree Branch, Top Middle.
We are formulating our plans for a strategic reconnaissance mission to Troup, Texas. The so-called "Good Neighbor Town."

And when we walk away from Troup, in reality a teeming hive of occult activity, we will have the answers to key questions.

What is the meaning of the occult symbol that emanates oh so inexorably upon the mysterious necktie of The Dink?

And what are the identities of the Occult Organization's leadership?

Adam Ballinger, the Night Watchman of The Ranch, whose precious human cargo are illuminated unknowingly as they sleep each night by the dancing lights of UFOs over Kaufman, Texas, has provided Tucker and I additional insights.
 
  
Mr. Branch
David Branch, our steadfast political scientist and noted decipherer of celestial clues, gives added dimension to our mission.


 
On this earth, there are certain key individuals with staggeringly powerful criminal thinking minds. The Dink, whose one-time tutelage of myself, Tucker, David Branch and Adam Ballinger resulted in the abatement of our earth-shattering criminal thinking pathologies, has gone into exile to a place known only as "The Lodge." It is here that The Dink has reportedly grown long hair and a beard, seemingly embracing his authenticity as this planet's foremost master of criminal thinking elements. 

It is our aim to confront The Dink in good time. Even now, I, the PMMF Custodian, can hear the smarmy smug voice of The Dink: "Oh. Oh! Oh, you will!" That insulting grin. The silent laugh inside that mocks you endlessly, soundless yet obscenely piercing.


Our goal is to disseminate The Dink's essential criminal thinking packet, a priceless written compendium that breaks down the crucial process upon which the criminal mind can be remediated of its critical thinking errors, to key individuals on a global scale. In addition, we shall provide these individuals the modern day photographic image of The Dink's long-haired cranium and bearded face, so that we can usher forth the Bliss Eternal.

Of course, we are well aware The Dink will probably not cooperate. We suspect that he has fallen completely under the sway of the Occult Organization. 


The answers and solutions to our difficulties lie in Troup, Texas. But we must be stealthy. So very very stealthy.

Ross with Moustache I.


Our work will enable us to spread the magic of the Bliss Eternal, commanded by Ross, to criminal thinkers everywhere. Ross is the Duke of Highland Park, and he watches us. He is sanctioned as the earthly bliss master by The Great Platypus of the Cat's Eye Nebula.  




Ross with Moustache II.



Sometimes, Ross gives us different looks that are delightfully blissful. Tucker appreciates the Moustasched Ross, in particular.
 






The Beav in Full-Scale Criminal Thinking Mode




Our prototype criminal thinker, The Beav, could use a good Ross Moustache bristling right about now, in fact. We will soon be ready to give The Beav a modern day image of The Dink, as well as The Dink's essential criminal thinking packet. 











It is our destiny. 


It is our Community Service.






Signs.








Symbols.












Critical aspects. 








Essential Tasks.















Such good work.







Eternal Bliss Face



If you can get it.