Don't be stupid

Anybody can be as much of an asshat as they want to be, as long as they don't persistently rub it under my nose. And if they absolutely have to show off their idiocy like a piece of jewelry, let them at least be eager to change their behaviour when having their acts of brutish stupidity pointed out by someone smarter.

Here is, based on things that annoyed me today, some advice on how to be less of a dumbass. FUCKING DON'T:

- wear UGG BOOTS or brag about how badly you want to have a pair of them. UGG boots are uggly. It seems like women are doomed to a kind of fashion down syndrome. What the hell is it with every single woman out there going completely mental and drippingly wet over the most hideous shoes in the universe? These shoes make every woman look like a retard. If there is a single man out there who thinks that UGG boots look good on girls, he must be shot at once. When I told my girlfriend, who was standing in front of a shop window, admiring the display of UGG dreadfulness, salivating and creaming her pants, that I find the shoes she was craving for so badly execrable, she answered "Women don't dress for the sole purpose of pleasing men". I had her arrested for that. At least I tried; unfortunately, the officer was a woman. She let me off with a warning.


- be a music smartass. No one gives a flying fuck about your pseudo-academic music knowledge. I hate to ask someone "Hey, who is that?" and getting a music nerd lecture on Eric Clapton's guitar playing style or how much better the original is or who wrote it. Even worse are people screaming out at every song they think no one but them knows "Woah IRON MAIDEN!" or "I HATE that version!" and then looking around to see if someone is in the slightest way reacting to their retarded outburst, so they can annoy him with their lame semi-expertise. These are usually people that will not shut the fuck up unless you knock them out. If you choose to ignore them and turn your back to them, they will follow you through the room like you're a hot bitch. If you answer or even commit the fatal error of letting yourself get entangled in an endless, nerve-wracking discussion, chances are they from then on think you are a friend of theirs. From that point on all is lost. I deal with such people by telling them as soon as they approach me that Pink is the greatest band ever. I usually manage to shake those motherfuckers off with that trick, since it makes them think I'm completely unworthy of hearing the important things they have to say.

- be Nickelback.

- be a hobbit motherfucker, and by hobbit motherfucker I don't mean hobbit motherfucker as in „Hobbit Motherfuckers“ by Turbonegro, but live role playing, sword brandishing, chain mail knotting, dragon shaped candleholder buying, wolf t-shirt wearing, Blind Guardian/Dream Theater/Rhapsody of Fire venerating Middle Earth fags. You suck. You're fat. You smell like sweat. You discuss orc weapons. Fuck you. Shut the fuck up.

My son shall be called SURVIVOR

Since I have found in my current girlfriend a fair, lusty, obedient and loyal woman, who will be able to carry out and whelp me many a healthy offspring, I have come to think a great deal about naming my descendants. Here are some ideas I had:

Males:
Survivor
Fighter
Fuckoff
Lemmy
Fenriz
Emoslayer (this one and the next could turn out to be rather bad ideas, if people abbreviate the names)
Faggotcrusher
Dammit
Necro
Mordred
Nero
Dr. Gonzo
Power
Speed
Bon Scott
Battlecry
Megadeth (if Dave Mustaine weren't ginger)
Bellerophon
Ardath Bey
Lightning
Johnny

Females:
Rosie

FUCK OFF AND DIE

When I'm old, I want to be a Darkthrone, because, goddamn, that band kicks ass so fucking much. Just listen to "Whiskey Funeral". That (muddy) gemstone of a song says it ALL. "Fucking forced to sleep in this life/Enough time to be sober in death" – feels good, man.

Darkthrone are so badass it makes my nose bleed and my dick hard when I think about it. What greater answer is there to being criticized (although Darkthrone don't really face criticism, but rather ignorance, imbecility and whiny nostalgia) than to persistently do the opposite of what people expect you to do. I wouldn't be surprised if their next release would be an album of child songs' remixes, or Fenriz farting. I'd fucking buy it. I'd get the album title tattooed.

It amazes me that there are still people around who find it necessary to utter something else about this band than exalted anthems of praise.

But yes, there are indeed people who still bitch and moan about what great music Darkthrone used to make back in the days, what an outrage it is that they play punk now and added guitar solos to their sound, how much it sucks that Fenriz is a techno DJ besides recording FBA (far-beyond-awesome) punk black metal records and how sad it made them when they first noticed they felt sexually attracted to men.


Darkthrone even called an album FUCK OFF AND DIE to make sure you get the message, and still you seem to find so much solace in being a pain in the ass that it doesn't matter much to you that no one cares about your piteous utterances of gayness.

One of the main reasons for Darkthrone's greatness are the riffs. Very few bands can compete with this band's count of killer riffs. Those are riffs that are not only great, but come disquietingly close to Slayer's "Raining Blood", which features the all-time greatest guitar riffs of all time.

I remember hearing "Natassja in Eternal Sleep" from UNDER A FUNERAL MOON for the first time. I was then in an adolescent-melancholic/romantic/suicidal phase. The music that at first sight corresponded to those feelings disappointed me at first hearing as too obvious, too mellow, too orientated at 14 year old anorexic (or bulimic) girls slitting their wrists. In short, too gay. I needed something else.

I didn't have a fucking clue. I was 16. I was sitting in a dark room and suddenly heard something that sounded like a rawer, darker, colder, meaner version of TRBNGR, stripped of their sense of humour. That sound. That voice. That resonance.

The words. The riffs. The greatness.

What insane, INSANE riffs they played. I had never heard anything like it. I didn't know music could be so minimalisitic, atonal and yet grandiose. And that was the first lesson Darkthrone teached me: Never judge a book by its cover. And reviews. The world is full of idiots. Few only sense gretaness when they find themselves confronted with it.


UNDER A FUNERAL MOON remains the best album Darkthrone have recorded to date. Next time they came remotely close to that album's dilettantish finesse was with 2003's HATE THEM.

Now what is to be venerated most on this album is the incredible amount of hate it contains. Anaal Nathrakh and Nattefrost try hard to reach HATE THEM's hate level, but they're not even close. What they make is just very evil music, whereas HATE THEM is a tsunami of hate. A hailstorm of hate. An amok run of hate. Darkthrone beat you unconscious with hate. This is TRUE HATE. Who gives a shit about true black metal? GIVE ME TRUE HATE.

If you're an idiot, you probably thought Dakrthrone couldn't surpass HATE THEM. Obviously, you were wrong. They did surpass HATE THEM and they didn't even need a whole album to do so. They recorded a whole album anyway, but one song from it was all it needed to bludgeon HATE THEM into oblivion: "Sjakk Matt Jesu Krist", the hate anthem par excellence. "Hammerslag på hammerslag", motherfucker. Where is your God now? Yeah, they beat "Raining Blood". They wrote and recorded the greatest, most badass monster god tier killer riff of all time.


Since they couldn't beat a riff that beat "Raining Blood", because it would be very much like trying to count further than infinity, Darkthrone decided to step a step away from black metal and do something else instead of, like most bands, trying too hard and fail. For the second time in their career, they created their own genre. While it was black metal the first time, they now chose to create black classic heavy metal punk, rocking your ass to pieces at the intersection between witlessness and genius, celebrating THE RIFF and THE HATE.

A further trademark of Darkthrone's awesomeness is their guitar sound. No other band has ever managed to produce something coming remotely close to that freezingly cold, face skinning sound. Not even Immortal. And the rawness of it... It's the sound of car crashes, colliding icebergs and frenzied misanthropy turned into riffs. Played loud enough, you could skin animals with it and make Africa freeze over. Some call it underproduced, I call it overbadass.

Darkthrone are so badass it's hard to find words to describe it. Compared to Darkthrone, GG Allin, who achieved one of the all-time highest levels of badassery, is just a shit-besmeared faggot trying too hard.


I can't imagine Darkthrone eating anything else than raw meat. They hardly ever sleep, except when they're too drunk to stay awake, but I doubt that happens very often. These guys have an awesome resistance to alcohol. They could drink Lemmy under the table hands down. When Fenriz is only wasted, Polish professional alcoholics are already dead.

Sometimes, when it's very, very cold outside, Nocturno Culto and Fenriz will leave their unheated cabin in the middle of a recording session to go out into the blizzard, where they will whip each other's faces with barbwire and thorny branches, kick each other in the dick and utter inhuman screams. This serves as a warning to the hungry bears and wolves lurking in the nearby woods not to come any closer. It also makes the guys pissed off enough to achieve proper necro sound.

If however a wild beast happens to be bold or desperate enough to come closer to the cabin, the rumbling sound of badass black metal punk played inside splits its head like a baked potato. That is the way Darkthrone hunt.


Contrary to what many extreme metal puritanics out there believe, Darkthrone still play true black metal.

The so-called "true" black metal is to music what 4chan's oldfaggotry is to the internet. It is distinctive and apart from the mainstream, frightening and repellent, ridiculously grandiose, beautiful to few only and understandable to almost no one.

True black metal is an attitude, rather than a distict genre, a special sound or a look; it's untamed, immature hate and consistent resistance to contemporary deceitfulness; it's standing against a hurricane of shit with your fist in the air, for lost fervour, for metal and darkness and for the hell of it.

All hail Darkthrone.

The Internet RULES

Punch a Nerd

One of the things I hate most about working where I work is the incredible amount of nerds I have to deal with. I recently counted and came to the conclusion that about 30% of my co-workers are nerds.

Today one of them, a guy (I'm not sure if "guy" is the appropriate term) looking like an amphibian version of Prince Valiant – so we'll call him Valiant Frog or, abbreviated, Froggy – noticed I was reading Clive Barker's DAMNATION GAME. He walked up to me and said: "Clive Barker, hm?" in a nerdish-insinuating way. I don't know what these guys insinuate, and I don't care, but they nevertheless do it with every fucking sentence that passes their nerd lips.


I pretented not to hear him. So he said it again. "Clive Barker, hm?" Louder. So that I couldn't possibly miss it, no matter how deeply immersed I was in my reading – and I was very, very deeply immersed, because "Damnation Game" kicks ass, which is why Froggy pissed me off so much at that moment.
"Yeah", I mumbled. "Clive Barker."
"Is it good?" Froggy asked, like he hadn't read it, but I knew he had. He has read every single horror , fantasy and science-fiction novel out there, seen every movie and listened to every soundtrack. He also knows not only the title of every 70s or 80s hard rock song you can possibly imagine, but also the interpret, the exact year of its release, the album on which it was featured, the name of the producer and what the band had for lunch when they recorded it. I have no proof, but I have reasons to assume he owns every single Warhammer 40,000 figurine and every issue of "White Dwarf". He can't fool me.
"Yes", I muttered.
"Have you read 'The Hellbound Heart'?"
"Not yet."
"'The Books of Blood'?"
"Nope."
"They're great. It's been a long time since I've last read something by Barker blablablablablabla..." – I lost track here.
He went on blabbering about whogivesashit for a while. I stared out of the window and tried to ignore him.
Nerds like Froggy can't be shooed away. No matter what you say, they won't fuck off and let you in peace. The only chance to make them leave you alone is not to acknowledge their presence. They are social-emotional autists and assess every sign of attention aimed in their general direction as deep concern for their nerd shit.
He eventually fell silent and just stood there. That's even worse than being talked to by him: when he just stands next to you and stares at you and waits for God knows what, because he doesn't know when a conversation is over and that if it is, you usually walk away and find something else to do. And with every second he stood there I got more and more angry, to the point of blank rage. When I couldn't take it anymore, I jumped up and beat the shit out of him.
I got an admonition for that. But it was worth it.

Turboneger - la Krieg totale

Great masters of their art show true greatness by knowing when it's time to quit. One of my all-time favourite bands, the once almighty Turbonegro, had their chance to go down in flames and vanish into the ether of rock'n'roll mythology. Sadly, they didn't quite use that chance.

Instead, they chose to return in 2002 with the somewhat callow, yet passable SCANDINAVIAN LEATHER. They announced the new record with a series of splendidly moronic interviews able to give you the feeling that the band that self-destructed itself 4 years before had returned indeed. Wrong.

Wrong.

What had actually returned was a bunch of aging men unable to shut the fuck up and getting to work on the systematic, self-abasing destruction of a legend – which is almost an artform in itself and makes me wonder if I didn't completely misinterprete their intention.

But once you get a closer look at it, I don't think there is much to misinterprete here.

Back in the horrid decade that were the 90s, a dark power rose in the Norwegian punk rock underground, to become the greatest rock'n'roll act the world had ever seen. These intellectual morons, led by the ingenious Happy-Tom, decided to become the most evil band ever. That was shortly after the trial of Varg Vikernes and the rise of Black Metal, and those idiots were hard to beat in terms of cretinism and danger. What could parents possibly be even more afraid of than Satan worshipping, corpse-paint wearing, church burning idiots with shitty recording quality on their albums?

Answer: The Gay Man.

There is hardly anything scarier than five full-grown norwegian males, moustached and denim-clad, playing badass punk rock, singing about child abuse, darkness, riot, the Third Reich and raping your anus. So TRBNGR, in a step of undescribable genius, decided to become that band and recorded a blacker than black, yet brightly shining statement of raw power and purest fuck you attitude: ASS COBRA.

Shaking hands with Morissey
Sucking cock in East Africa
Ask a lesbian for a fuck
Take a shower in... Auschwitz

And it's gonna happen to you

Complaining about a drug deal at Jolly's pub
Driving really fast in a car
Scuba diving in a hippies tub
Take a shower in...Auschwitz

And it's gonna happen to you baby
It could happen to your child
You could have the same experience

Listening to ASS COBRA wakes in me a dark urge to get messed up beyond good and evil and destroy everything that steps in my way, and be it my own face. It makes me yearn for raunchy sex with total strangers and fighting with bicycle chains in gang brawls. It makes me want to grow a moustache and wear make-up and drive around the suburbs in a white Mustang with blood red leather seats, looking for places where life is still a synonym of darkness and danger. It makes me want to walk along the Reeperbahn, armed with a baseball bat, and randomly beat up people and get beaten up myself, and maybe raped in the butt but being too drunk to even notice, then wake up in my own vomit only to get shitfaced and beaten up again.

It is definitely one of the greatest records of all time, ranking third in my personal countdown, just after REIGN IN BLOOD and PAINKILLER.

After ASS COBRA came APOCALYPSE DUDES, melodious and dazzling, greasy and megalomaniac, and then, at the verge of fame and glory, the downfall, caused by singer Hank's heroin addiction. What a perfect, beautiful way to go for such a band.

Unfortunately, they chose to return. A comeback in itself isn't necessarily a bad decision, only the band self-destructed itself once again, and this time it was (and still is) a slow and painful process.

While SCANDINAVIAN LEATHER, the comeback record, passes off as a tolerable effort to tie up to the old days' greatness, the follow-up PARTY ANIMALS and the latest output retox (I refuse to write that album's title in capital letters) are, coming from a band whose name alone invokes fear and danger, mere musical flatulences. The riffs are uninspired and lame, Hank sounds like the fat, sober douchebag he's obviously become, the lyrics are – damn, I can't even remember what the lyrics are about, while I know the words to ASS COBRA and APOCALYPSE DUDES by heart. PARTY ANIMALS and retox feature songs called "If You See Kaye (Tell Her I L-O-V-E Her)", "Stay Free", "Hot Stuff/Hot Shit", "Do You Do You Dig Destruction", "Everybody Loves a Chubby Dude" and, worst of all: "What Is Rock!?" No wonder I can't remember the lyrics. I think I listened to both albums about one time each before I decided it's not worth the physical and mental pain they inflict me and sent them to the Chechens to be used as weapons against the Russian plague. I hate to compare old and new band material, but this goes too far. This music feels like toothpicks pushed under my fingernails.

What the hell are you trying to be, Turbofaggot? Fuck off. You're the parody of the afterbirth of a parody, and that stinks.


But of course you can always find worse than the worst. In this case, we have the Turbojugend.
Bad, and even terrible albums are one thing, but they can't do much harm, unless someone actually buys them and brags in public about how awesome they are and even meets once a year with people like himself, to brag all together and wear the same clothes and beat their tiny cocks raw over the great band they think TRBNGR to be.

I find it hard to find words that can describe how much I despise the giant dumbass congregation of Turbojugend. If there really were such a thing as a rock'n'roll God, those Turbojugend dickheads would be the first to be exterminated by his righteous mighty wrath. It is an even greater sin to misunderstand rock'n'roll than not to understand and care about it at all. There is no justification for being part of the Turbojugend as it is today (except if you're only in it because you're trying to score with one of the – admittedly hot – Jugend chicks). There is no justification for openly supporting rock bourgeois wanking in your face.

No wonder Chris Summers and Rune Rebellion left the band. I hope your hiatus goes on forever, Turbofaggot.

Helene Hegemann

Helene Hegemann is the latest German cultural scandal and at first I didn't want to give a shit about her and successfully managed to ignore her, but I finally do have to give a shit, because, damn, she's pissing me off.

She seems to piss off a lot of people nowadays, for different reasons, but the main one seems to be the evident fact that she copy-pasted the major part of her book "Axofuckl Roadcunt" from other so-called culturally relevant blogs and novels. But, really, who cares? At the Gates' version of Slaughter Lord's "Legion" is far better than the original. I've listened to Slaughter Lord. They suck. If no one remembers them, they've obviously didn't get it quite right. All hail At the Gates.

I have different reasons to hate the living shit out of Helene fucking Hegemann.

Number one: her origins. Her father is Carl-Georg Hegemann a major German intellectual bourgeoisie drama cunt. If his name alone doesn't piss you off yet, what about this: fucking knobhead studied philosophy, sociology and literature and did a doctorate at the age of 30. I'd rather do nothing at all for the rest of my life than a doctorate at 30. Carl Hegemann works as a dramatic advisor and writes papers about the intersection of society and theater. What? THEATER? Shut the fuck up. We have cinema, who gives a shit about theater? Fuck off and die, theater faggot.

Number two: Jealousy, fuck yeah. I avow myself to the sin of jealousy. I've wanted to write and publish my own book since the age of eleven. I've never published, and not even finished a single text until now, because I've never thought anything to be even approximatively good enough for my pretentious criteria, let alone good enough to compete against the works of the great masters that inspired me. And now that greasy-haired intelligentsia brat comes along and has the bluntness to publish her belched pubertal fantasies and make a million with it – what the hell?

Number three: Helene H. is fucking ugly and that makes her book a lie. I haven't read it and I'm not planning to read it, at least not in the near future (next five years), but I have heard she's writing a great deal about sex. Objection, your honor! Who would fuck that potato faced abomination? It has also come to my attention that she writes about masturbation. My plea: Ugly chicks do not have anything coming close to sex, and that implies all actions involving the touching of the genitals, except going potty and washing. I gather from the oily shimmer of Helene's hair that she doesn't wash too often though.


So when I see Helene Hegemann's face, I forget about my jealousy. Really, I'm almost happy she's making a million with her book because I'd rather stay poor and dumb than be that ugly. Strengthens my thesis on the degeneration of Germany's cultural elite.

But her ugliness doesn't seem to affect any of those gay ass cultural journalist who whine about her blunt copy-pasting. I bet the tip of my dick they don't care the slightest bit about her prose theft but just write hateful stuff about her because they are, like myself, just jealous because they never managed to achieve anything in life and have to watch that cunt making shitpiles of money, while they write whiny envious whogivesashit online columns in order to pay for their uglier-than-Helene-Hegemann Golf 2. Damn it, just look at her face and calm the fuck down!

Introduction

I am a rather tall (193 cm standing), fairly handsome white caucasian male, living in Hamburg, Germany, more precisely in a quarter of the big district Altona called Bahrenfeld.

I believe Bahrenfeld to be the most perfect area for me to live in. It's metropolitan with a nice suburban flair. You can feel the big glamorous/filthy city a few blocks away, but also the sense of danger and ennui (which for me have become synonyms) emanating from the close suburbs. An ex girlfriend of mine used to live deep in the actual suburbs (Eidelstedt and Lurup to be very exact) and I have learned to hate and fear those parts of the Hamburg agglomeration.

I am very thin, yet athletic built, since I work out from time to time (not too much though, because I have better things to do in my free time than working out, like downloading porn or doing nothing).

I love mankind and hate people. I get erections from big tits and heavy metal. I am rather extrovert but prefer to stay home instead of meeting people because I hate most of them and feel awkward around them. That's why I write this instead of actually telling it to someone.

That's enough for now.