XTRANORMAL.COM VERSION:

It is a well-known and accepted fact that all people, excluding Pauly Shore, fall into either one of two categories: those who are in on the joke and everyone else. Not to further unfairly perpetuate broad stereotypes but telemarketers as a rule without exception always fall into the latter.

Just Google “telemarketers” one day when you are supposed to be working and you’ll understand. There are the obligatory websites from telemarketers decrying that they are in fact real people with real feelings and other such nonsense. More importantly some 2,980,000 hits come up with different ways that you can entertain yourself at a telemarketer’s expense.

I will kill that bitch if she doesn't get her hands off my cheese.

I’m going to save you some time and tell you now that all these other posts are amateurish, juvenile, lacking any real sense of creativity and are simply just not fun.

You’re in luck since Captain Boondoggle is willing to share a little step-by-step plan for your endless entertainment that is simply entitled “Engaging a Telemarketer in a Nonsensical Conversation”.

Before I can unload such a prescriptive roadmap for your entertainment, there are two critical pieces of information that you have to understand to be successful:

1. Telemarketers read from a script and have prepared answers to any of your possible objections.

2. Forcing them to deviate from the script causes them to have epileptic seizures.

Let’s begin with a transcript of a recent call I received:

And….. scene.

It’s 6:30 pm Thursday. Phone rings. Caller ID Reads “A M Mortgage Co.”

Telemarketer (TM): Click….”Hello is Mr. Boondoggle available?”

ME: “I speak for Mr. Boondoggle.”

TM: “Mr. Boondoggle this is Jeff from A M Mortgage Co. and rates are really low right now, how do you feel about saving money on your mortgage?”

ME: “Do you like cheese?”

TM: “……..We can refinance with…uh…no cash….and uh…and lock in a rate….”

ME: “I said, DO YOU LIKE CHEESE?”

TM: “…uh…yes.”

ME: “yes, what?”

Oh, Sweet Delight! Lactose Nirvana!

TM: “ummm…uh…I like cheese?”

NOTE: This is what we in the business like to call “taking control of the conversation” and showing that you are the true alpha dog by not answering any question directed to you.

Ozzy’s new release Scream is a steaming chunk of beheaded bat shit that barely manages a murmur, much less a scream.
I’m so disappointed in this effort that I’m not going to even waste my time writing a proper review.  The main problem with the album is that it just sounds lazy. Ozzy teamed up again with Kevin Churko who produced his last album Black Rain but does not achieve the same results. This is probably because he recorded the album at his home studio and you can’t rock while wearing pajamas.  It’s just a fact.  Here’s why it sucks:

1.  Ozzy’s vocals sound like he downloaded the iPhone app “I am T-pain” and loves him some Autotune.

2.  No real hooks with the exception of “Let Me Hear You Scream” which sounds like Nickelback’s “Burn It Down” or a crappier version of Black Rain’s “I Don’t Wanna Stop.”

3.   Zakk Wylde, his guitarist since 1988, wasn’t invited back.  Although I love Zakk and Black Label Society, I thought this was a sign he had found a new prodigy just like Zakk and Randy Rhoads.  I have no idea why he chose new guitarist Gus G (?) as his meandering solos add nothing new to the mix.

4.  It sounds cheap.  $haron went on a rant last time about Black Rain’s mediocre sales even with an Ozzfest push.  The decision to record the album at home, not bring back Zakk,  and use a drum machine, seems to be a financial one.   (A dude named Tommy Clufetos is credited as the drummer but I think that’s just the name of the machine manufacturer.) That combined with a truncated Ozzfest run of just 6 dates shows a lack of confidence in the album’s potential.

I’m pretty sure that the Ozzy camp sensed they had a turd on their hands and tried to polish it with some creative promotion (CSI, Rock Band) since they know word of mouth will quickly kill the beast.   It’s too bad because because I was looking forward to the return of the Prince of Darkness.  He can now return to singing “Born to be Wild” with Miss Piggy, planning the reboot of Osbournes Reloaded, and riding that crazy train to nowhere.

Past RUFKM article on the Osbournes Reloaded by TylerDFC

"Hello! Is Loose Cannon available? It's Tucker from Paypal!"

“Is this Loose Cannon?”

“I speak for Loose Cannon.  Who is this?”

“This is Tucker from Paypal.  You owe us $1,309.15.  If this is not paid by next Tuesday we will send you to collections, destroy your credit, gang rape your Shih Tzu, punch you in the face, pleasure your wife in front of you, and burn down your house.”

Paypal has over 6 million customers and I am one of them.  As everyone knows, it’s a beautiful system that protects both the seller and the buyer from revealing sensitive credit card information.  If you have a small business, like I do, it gives you more flexibility and a convenient and secure method to receive guaranteed payments.  Paypal even has seller protection for up to $5,000 in case the the buyer supplies a fraudulent credit card.

But here’s the dirty little secret about Paypal.

If your business provides any type of service, and the buyer decides FOR WHATEVER REASON that they no longer want that service, you are absolutely nailed in the ass harder than Zac Efron on his first night at Rikers Island.  The buyer can charge back EVERYTHING on their credit card and then Paypal will then send YOU to collections.

I’ll describe how this can happen through the following hypothetical situation.  And by “hypothetical” I mean this is exactly what happened.

Let’s say you decide not to get married because you discovered your fiance is a filthy, cheating whore.  The wedding is just a month away and you made deposits on the wedding venue, the DJ, the florist, the event planner, the band, the limo, and the caterer.  These businesses have turned down potential clients requesting the same date you picked to get married.   No problem!  If you’ve made those deposits through Paypal it’s all good!  Charge that shit back!  No harm, no foul and you can go back to banging random chicks.  The seller is completely fisted no matter what proof they try to provide!

What if the seller sends Paypal  a 4 page signed legal document that explains your deposit for the service was non refundable?  Nope!  They’ll still get hollowed out worse than Lindsey Lohan after 20 minutes in the Atlanta Falcons’ locker room.

What if they send Paypal 100 pages of time stamped emails proving discussion between you and the seller that service was provided over a 60 day period?  Hell no.  They get a delightful Dirty Sanchez in the bathroom of a meth lab.

What if they show receipts, signatures, and tracking numbers of letters sent to the you attempting to continue their service after you breached the contract?  Uh-uh, girlfriend!  Their ass will be aching like a quality tester at the King Dong Butt Plug factory.

Paypal simply sends the dispute to the buyer’s credit card and if it’s rejected, welcome to Pain Town, population: YOU.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Sold a bullshit vampire kit for $2,000 to some idiot in Iowa? Don't worry! You're covered!

That’s correct.  Paypal will cover sellers that ship vampire killing kits, UFO detectors, and a serial killer’s fingernails; all you need is a UPS or FED EX tracking number and signature for proof of delivery.  Here’s the exact verbiage which is on section VII,  approximately 40,000 words into Paypal’s agreement:

Seller Protection Policy

1. General. PayPal agrees to indemnify sellers of physical goods from reversal liability resulting from a buyer’s unauthorized use of a credit card and/or false claims of non-shipment of goods. This protection applies only to the sale of physical goods, and not to any non-tangible, non-physical goods or services pursuant to section 1 above.

The majority of businesses are service oriented.   Restaurants, dry cleaners, accountants, cable, phone, internet service, any type of rental— these all

The guys fist on the right + my asshole = Paypal's service policy

do not have a tangible product.  No, you’re not going to pay at Chili’s through Paypal but you sign a tiny ripped receipt that states you ate some food and are thrilled for that service to be charged to your credit or debit card.  I supplied signed multipage legal documents and over 100 pages of email discussions proving service was rendered and received a five finger death punch in my colon.

If you own a small business, and your business does not specialize in shipping grilled cheese sandwiches on Ebay that look like Jesus…. you’ve been warned.

Apparently I’m not alone.  You can read other “tales of the fist” at Screw-Paypal.com. They even offer advice on how to fight the Ebay owned juggernaut.

If you want to call Paypal and discuss their policy in detail, their Atlanta number is 410-316-9744.

Ask for Tucker.

Quick! Who doesn't belong?

values would we decide whether they were good or bad, talented or untalented, success or failures? How can we ever know that what we think is right?”

(Marya Manne, “How Do You Know It’s Good”)

Throughout my life, certain songs have been synonymous with significant events; sometimes they were so powerful that they helped me get through some rough times.

I wasn’t into Korn until I heard “Here to Stay” and bought Untouchables in 2002.  The song had a killer riff and, although it was simplistic, had the best breakdown since Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.”  This was a year when my life was flipped upside down, run over by a cement truck, dragged into a ditch, and date raped by a warthog wearing a Magnum P.I. mustache.  More specifically, my three year relationship ended with who I thought at the time was The One, I was a victim of identity theft before it was trendy, and opted to move because of a promotion to the thriving metropolis of Manteno, IL, better known as “an exit you take when you are going somewhere else.”

I saw the world in shades of red and I alone was responsible for a 3% increase in Phillip Morris’s yearly profit.  When I look back at pictures during 2002 I can clearly see 20 pounds of alcohol bloat, the toxic  skin of someone who ate  Marlboro Lights for breakfast, and anger even when I was faking a smile.

Currently I am extremely happy and healthy with a gorgeous, loving wife, and we are about to have our first child in August.  Whatever anger I have now stems mainly from my business which which occasionally features

Image does not represent the abs of a female Korn fan.

douchenozzles who fist us on credit card chargebacks on Paypal.  When that happens I throw my  iTunes on shuffle, pick “Metal” for the genre, and some evil gem will pop up that I haven’t heard for A LONG TIME.  (My collection of music is both eclectic and at 0ver 10,000 songs is completely out of hand.) This time that track was “Here To Stay.”

When I heard it, I immediately jumped in a DeLoreon and time traveled, without the help of 1.21 gigawatts, to that period of my life .  I remember how I listened to the entirety of Untouchables so many times that it became my personal soundtrack while working out, driving aimlessly for hours, repainting my house, and other repetitive tasks to keep my mind occupied.    So I typed in “Korn” under iTunes and found that not only did I have the entire Untouchables album, I ALSO HAD 58 OTHER KORN TRACKS.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?  When I amassed such a collection is beyond me.  I suspect drunk downloading and the days of  “Why Not?” on Napster.

While listening to Untouchables 8 years later, I realized that I was NOT listening to a masterpiece, but that Korn were idiot savants.   AC/DC has been accused of releasing the same album over and over again but Korn has taken that skill to another level.

They have released the same SONG since 1994. On Untouchables there were only 4 solid songs, and the other ones sounded exactly like those 4 solid songs. ( iTunes “Genius” feature also informed me that Korn is releasing their 9th studio album Korn III: Remember Where You Are on July 13th. From what I’ve heard, it’s not good.  Besides the inexplicable choice of naming their 9th album “III”,  a review on MetalSucks confirms what I thought listening to the clips; you couldn’t tell the difference from one song from the next.)

Intrigued, I made a playlist of the 58 tracks which spanned from 1994-2007.   Some were great 3 minute clips of rage.  Most were awful.  With few exceptions, they had the following formula:

1.  No guitar solo.  Ever.  Over their career Korn has released more than 100 songs.  This is an impressive accomplishment.

2.  At the 2:15 mark, to replace a solo, each track was supplemented with one of the following:

a. A sing along chant

b. nonsensical  rant

c.  psychotic cookie monster ramblings

d. example of tourette’s syndrome

e.  audio from an epileptic seizure

3.  With few exceptions, no actual riffs.  They substituted the following until they got to the chorus:

a.  looped feedback

b.  out of tune bass slapping

c.  random sound effects

4.   The lyrics rarely rhymed, the chorus occasionally did.

5.  The middle screaming, rambling part of the song never had anything to do with the verse or chorus.

Korn doesn’t completely suck and I’ve made the following playlist-suitable for the gym, jogging, or armed robbery-to prove my argument.
If you have a craving for Korn, don’t get the new album, just download the following songs. You will notice that there are no tracks from the first two albums.  That is because they are both heaping piles of garbage.  Korn purists, bring the hate.

Cream of Korn

1.  Dead

2.  Starting Over

3.  Here To Stay

4.  Did My Time (Grayedout Mix)

5. Bitch We Got A Problem

6.  Make Me Bad

7. Leave Me Alone

8.  Word Up!

9. Evolution

10.  4 U

11.  Alone I Break

12.  Freak On A Leash

13.  Right Now

14.  Hollow Life

15.  Falling Away From Me

16.  Thoughtless

17.  Got The Life

18.  Trash

19.  Everything I’ve Known

Bonus:  Here To Stay (Remix)

A long time ago (March 22nd and 23rd, 2010) in a galaxy far away (Columbus, OH) RUFKM attended Rock on the Range. Rock on the Range is a two day event featuring over 30 bands at Crew Stadium near Ohio State.

Slash brought the hat.... and the ROCK.

We have captured all the sights, sounds, and smells of this music fest and edited it down to under 10 minutes for your viewing pleasure.

The following video is a completely uncensored (read:  tons of tits) version of the video clip we uploaded on YouTube.  If you watch this at work you will be fired before lunch.  Live performances by Slash, Rob Zombie, Limp Bizkit, Five Finger Death Punch, Anberlin, Shaman’s Harvest, Year Long Disaster, and others.

Due to circumstances beyond our control (stupidity) we did not bring our camera along on day one.  Luckily we have additional live coverage courtesy of RUFKM correspondent Rockllnvrdie, AKA “dude I met on the plane back from Columbus watching footage he shot on his laptop.”

Real Music.  Real Shenanigans.  Real Boobs.

Get your horns up!

Tits McGhee Rock on the Range 2010 MobileMe Version

Rockllnvrdie’s YouTube Rock on the Range YouTube Page

Clean YouTube Version

TylerDFC and Loose Cannon after 17 Harps. Only $9 each!

- JackfnBurton, May 25, 2010.

Yes, you read that right. I have not gone insane.

When you think of the greatest artistic minds in history, who pops into your head? Da Vinci? Rembrandt? Michelangelo? When you think of the greatest actors of all time, what are the first names to surface? Olivier? Hepburn? Orson Welles? Meryl Streep? Ask yourself – if one person in all of history could by their very existence define the word “art”, could embody the concepts of ingenuity, vision, passion, daring and all that is utterly kick-ass, who would you name? I will give you that name; give you one word:

Lohan.

Yes. Lohan. Just let echo for a moment. Lindsay Lohan is the greatest artist of our time, and perhaps the single greatest creative genius the world has ever seen. She is perhaps the very nexus of art, life, death, suffering, ecstasy and infinity itself. Do you think I am wrong?

If so, then you are a fool. You understand nothing. But Lindsay gets it. What do I mean? I’ll explain, but forgive me if I succeed in only scratching the surface of transcendence, if I manage to penetrate only the most distant horizons of the glorious and abstract. For though I believe I have a faint grasp of her brilliance I am nothing compared to The Lohan.

Nothing. And neither are you.

The Chosen One.

One good Lohan deserves another.

We all should have noticed back when The Lohan starred in Disney’s The Parent Trap. Taking over the role that made Hayley Mills a household name, The Lohan proved even then that she is more than the sum of her parts. She proved that Haley Mills sucks rocks. She proved that schizophrenia can be adorable – and what irony! In one fell swoop, The Lohan did not just play the part of identical twins – she became two people. Look at her eyes: on the left, precocious innocence. On the right…koo-koo for Coco Puffs. This was only a hint of things to come. The Lohan had only given us a glimpse of her abilities, one which we hardly deserved. Who was she? What was she doing? Why was she here? Over time, The Lohan would try again to communicate with us, in her own, Immortal way.

The Rebel

The Final Countdown.

After years of trying to illuminate us with her innocence, The Lohan began to transform. Even here, we see the same duality of being that we saw in The Parent Trap. Is she smiling, or is she baring her teeth? Are her eyes full of joy, or full or wrath? Yes – to all. And her clothes bear a warning – we did not heed The Lohan, whatever the hell she was trying to tell us, to warn us about. It was time to put reality into a blender with pineapple, vodka and ice and gulp down a fruity blast of liquid insanity.

From here on out, we were going to get the Full Lohan.

The Phreak

Self Improvement is Masturbation.

Any girl can party. Anyone can destroy themselves. But how many of us can make it a spectacle worthy of the ages? How many of us can achieve immortality through or own annihilation? What is shame, but inhibition, and what is inhibition but weakness? And what is weakness but a Living Death? The Lohan tried to show us that there is an answer to Living Death – Living Yourself to Death. Yet…we were all still unconvinced by her message. It was time for The Lohan to get all Freaky Friday on our asses.

The Artist

Are you not entertained?

Enlisting the help of an equally hot and barely legal friend, The Lohan attempted to flirt with the very edge of madness itself. Is death an end, or a beginning, or is it just…really fucking sexy? Perhaps it is all three. Perhaps that is the lesson. Perhaps…we were all still too foolish to see. All Prophets eventually find that their greatest foe is not the insouciance of their flock, but their own inability to overcome it. As with all great Soothsayers, The Lohan quickly realized that the conveyance of her message would require more than personal sacrifice, it might require her own very destruction. The Lohan would not be an artist; she would become the art. Her life itself would become a Masterpiece. In the Spirit of the Bard, the World itself would become her Stage. Soon, we would all bear witness to a Celebrity Flameout so remarkable, it would enforce its greatness upon us all.

The Enigma.

She is doing more right now than you EVER have.

All great artists encounter a period of subtlety. Picasso had his famous Blue Period – the passion and angst of youth gives way to a desire for understanding, and the reflectiveness of middle age. But for some it comes early – The Lohan operates on a different time line than the rest of us. Her world is accelerated, beyond the speed of light and the puny boundaries of our little universe. There is not time enough to allow the world to catch up to her genius, it must be forced upon us. As The Lohan entered her own period of Reflection, she was mocked by those who still did not understand – but can you deny the elegant simplicity you see above? What is she trying to say? Perhaps that rest is an illusion – that life is a chase, a dance, a struggle against the Self? Or perhaps that it is best to eat something before you hit the clubs?

One can only wonder. And marvel.

Many were converted but there was still much work to do.

Infinity and Beyond.

The greatest grace of the artist is total sacrifice TO art.

Only by despising one’s self utterly can one learn the true meaning of Love. This is the message of The Lohan – or…is it? We can’t be sure. Ours is not to understand, but to wonder, wander and eventually pound down as much Tuaca as we can stand in 30 minutes. Have you visited the gates of Death? Have you seen the Portal to Hell? Have you carved your name into the pedestals of Oblivion itself? Of course you haven’t. And it means that you haven’t lived, and you haven’t even come close to the Wondrous Mystery that is The Lohan.

What the fuck does she have to do to convince you? Die?

So be it.

Pain is just weakness, leaving the body.

Loneliness is the Penance of the Prophet. What is The Lohan paying for? Who knows. Is it a past life? A future life? Are they our sins, are they hers? Maybe she’s just paying for trying to slam 10 shots of Patron in ten minutes. I am not worthy to speculate further. But if there is greater pain than suffering alone, it may be the pain of sharing your suffering with the world. And this, The Lohan is more than willing to do.

Also, she probably shares the pain of spending eight hours slamming Long Island Iced Tea made with Bacardi 151. That shit will blast your brains right out your ears and give you a four-day hangover.

What’s Next?

Eternity...by Linsay Lohan

What will come next for The Lohan? The more important question is what will come next for us? When the End comes, she will not be destroyed, we will because she will no longer be around for us to contemplate. Think about THAT for a minute. The next chapter is coming, but don’t try to prepare for it…The Lohan is preparing it for YOU.

She risks her life for you - because you have nothing better to do than sit there on your couch and in front of your PC and watch her do it. Rejoice, for if not for The Lohan, you would have to watch something equally depressing but far less realistic – like The Hills, or Fox News.

What does The Lohan have left to teach us? Like an Irish Car Bomb, we cannot anticipate it; we must merely embrace it when it comes.

My friends, you have not gone insane. You have gone über-sane. Only now can you truly begin to understand The Passion of the Lohan.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/25/swill-street-stories-passion-lohan/feed/ 0 http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/22/major-cast-change-exploding-transformers-sequel/ http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/22/major-cast-change-exploding-transformers-sequel/#comments Sun, 23 May 2010 02:09:05 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=6912 By Jack “Boom Boom” Burton, RUFKM Giant Exploding Transformers correspondent.

A Giant Exploding Transformer.

Hollywood, CA – Major breaking news today from the set of Giant Exploding Transformers 3! My sources are reporting that after a series of ongoing personal grievances, Smoking Hot Babe – a major cast member from the first two installments who was utterly critical to the films’ success – has bowed out. The announcement was unexpected, and immediately sent shockwaves through the film industry. According to my exclusive network of insiders, the decision was that of the director, Michael Douché (rhymes with ‘Bay’). Calls from RUFKM Worldwide to the studio were not returned, but Michael Douché has responded via press release:

“It was important to us to take the Giant Exploding Transformers franchise in another direction creatively. Having a new love interest for our star allows us to do that, even though the two of them hardly have any lines, barely touch each other and never bang. We wish Smoking Hot Babe the best, and look forward to recasting the part with someone of equally incredible acting ability. She will be hard to replace, but we’re very excited about the future possibilities for Giant Exploding Transformers. And also, This has nothing to do with the fact that she hates me and said that I am worse than Hitler.“

Smoking Hot Babe

Sounds like an open and shut case, doesn’t it? Well, when I awoke this morning next to a strange woman in a motel room strewn with beer bottles and beef jerky wrappers, there was an email waiting for me on my piece of shit Nokiga Splooge X4800, the craptastic phone RUFKM Worldwide gave me because they were too cheap to give me an iPhone. The email was from Smoking Hot Babe, and it is a good thing she sent it when she did, since the phone went dead an hour later because my RUFKM Amex was declined. It appears TylerDFC maxed it out buying imitation Xanax from Canada.

I didn’t even know you could max out an Amex or that you could get discount Xanax. Thanks for the tip, Tyler. I can’t wait to hitchhike home from Burbank – completely sober.

Anyway, Smoking Hot Babe had this to say:

“Douché can suck it. None of it is true and he is worse than Hitler. I quit because I wanted to expand my creative horizons. The only reason I was in those movies is because I wanted to showcase my Daisy Duke-wearing, boob-tastic Camaro-fixing abilities so that I could pursue other acting opportunities. Now, I’ve done that. My next role will be in the upcoming James Blond film, where I will play an impossibly beautiful Russian agent with a terrible accent and a bright red Lycra catsuit, which is ideal for undercover espionage work. I wish Giant Exploding Transformers all the best, and also, Sherpa LaBuff is gay.”

Wow. Just…wow. I am pretty used to major movie stars telling me things they would never tell anyone else from a small entertainment website very few people have heard of, but I wasn’t ready for a bombshell like that! There’s going to be another James Blond film? Holy shit! Well hold on to your hats – generations of loyal RUFKM Star Monkeys™ have learned that I am the master at obtaining the scoop, and once again I have come through for you. Thanks to a $500 bribe and the keys to my 1987 Jetta, my exclusive sources have revealed that even as we speak, Smoking Hot Babe’s replacement has already been chosen! Write it down on your calendars – you heard it here first. Smoking Hot Babe has been replaced by…

Another Smoking Hot Babe

…ANOTHER Smoking Hot Babe. And that wasn’t as easy to find out as you think. I have to go to great lengths go dig up three day old press releases from the dumpsters behind Variety headquarters, because they already know what I look like.

As you can see from this exclusive RUFKM surveillance photo, Another Smoking Hot Babe is indeed smoking hot, and should have no trouble filling the Camaro-tweaking Daisy Dukes of Smoking Hot Babe I. The question is, can she bring the same gravity to the role that her predecessor did? I’m just not sure folks.

Sure, it’ll still be a Michael Douché film, so it’ll look like it was shot on the back of a wild horse during a nuclear explosion. But do you really think millions of teenage boys flocked to theaters to see a thirty year old teenager fight Giant Exploding Transformers alongside Other Giant Exploding Transformers as they struggle for control of…um…an iron shaving? I don’t know…whatever the fuck it was they were trying to do, a lot of shit definitely exploded.

No. They came to see Smoking Hot Babe roll around in the dirt in a tank top while Giant Exploding Transformers…well, exploded all around her. This is like replacing the police captain in a cop flick. Who can pull that off? Its not as easy as it sounds to scream, bug your eyes out and talk about your blood pressure medication on cue. Trust me, its just as hard to wear super tight clothes, wet lipstick and flip your hair in front of a wind machine for 16 hours a day. I know because I have do it every weekend, thanks to my pitiful $400 a month salary from RUFKM.

Another Smoking Hot Babe is clearly a stunningly beautiful and astonishingly thin lingerie model, making her a natural choice for lead actress in a $670 gajillion action film. She is said to be “excited” and “thrilled” at the opportunity, calling it quote – “awesome”. People, these aren’t adjectives you are going to hear just anywhere. RUFKM Worldwide is staffed by a crack team of professionals who specialize in getting their hands on the pointless, trivial news you want – no matter the cost. And speaking of cost…that reminds me. I am late for my shift at the In-N-Out.

No…not the burger place. Hey, I have bills to pay too you know.

This has been RUFKM Worldwide Giant Exploding Transformers correspondent Jack Burton. Tell the world my story.

Undoubtedly, his passing will be met with derision and jokes from those outside of the metal community. For those of us that grew up with the music, it is the loss of a founding father of metal.

I will admit I didn’t know his work that well and really only starting listening to him these last few years. I always knew of him, it is impossible to be an old-school metal fan and not know the contributions of Dio. I knew he was Ozzy Osbourne’s replacement in Black Sabbath. After that he went solo and released a number of successful albums spawning hits like “Holy Diver” and “Rainbow in the Dark”. The songs really came alive with the music videos. They usually depicted Dio wielding a huge sword smiting monsters and demons and rescuing damsels in distress. They were deliciously cheesy, hilarious, and rather incomprehensible. I loved them. Most recently, Dio and Black Sabbath had reformed under the name “Heaven & Hell” and were prepping a tour for the summer.

While Dio was a talented musician and a powerhouse singer, his most lasting legacy wasn’t even the music at all. It was the hand sign known as the devil horns. There is considerable debate as to who first started throwing the horns on stage as Gene Simmons has also laid claim to it. Naturally. Of course Gene Simmons has claimed he invented, among other things, the combustion engine, Sweet & Low, and water so his claims may be a bit dubious. No matter who first put up the horns, it was Dio’s use that popularized the gesture, forever changing the face of rock and roll and giving metal fans an international symbol that united them.

Rest in Peace, Dio. You will be missed and remembered.

I hated high school with a white hot fury. I could not WAIT to get out of that place. I am always incredulous upon meeting people that proclaim high school as the best years of their life. I usually stare at them for a moment contemplating a life that pitiful. Then they hand me my order and I leave the drive thru.

I’m not going to lie, I respect all of you too much to do that, but I was not a very good student. Oh, I had the intelligence to be. Lord knows my parents as well as various teachers and administrators saw potential and the mighty state sponsored aptitude tests proclaimed me a genius. But I just never really cared enough to get anything beyond average grades.

Then I tried to get into college and all that changed. My college application had been given tentative acceptance based on 2 things:

1) I had to re-take Algebra I
2) I needed to maintain a minimum 2.5 GPA.

It was senior year and I was encouraged by my guidance counselor to take Chemistry. I had squeaked through with a C in Physics and had hoped to leave the world of complex science far behind. Never mind that I had applied to the School of Psychology where I would never need chemistry ever again. What the hell do chemistry and psychology have to do with each other?

Ohhhhhhhhhhh.
Ok, come to think of it that makes more sense now. I thought my guidance counselor was just being a dick. Mental note to remove gypsy curse from his family as soon as I get done with this entry.

Now the Algebra thing was just sadistic. After all, I passed Algebra when I was a freshmen. I was overjoyed to get a D-. Never mind that my actual percentage was around 34%, I just told myself the teacher was grading on a curve. A new type of curve where no one ever gets an F. So I left that class not realizing I was going to have to retake it as a senior. Anticlimactically, it went better the second time around. Not to mention that when you are the only Senior in a classroom full of Freshmen and Sophomores you are a GOD to them. I could have had them shave their heads and make soap for me in an abandoned house if I was so inclined.

So while Algebra was going OK, I had a terrible time in Chemistry class. Between the complex math and memorizing of the periodic table I just about had a stroke in there. It didn’t help that midway through the year our teacher decided to turn the reins over to that most evil of all public education concepts: the student teacher.

I understand the need to have future educators learn in a real world environment. I’m sure it is a valuable learning experience and all and most likely weeds out the people that are just not up to the challenge. Personally, there are few professions I would hate more than being a teacher in a public high school. Even Dirty Jobs’ Mike Rowe at his shit-covered filthiest would probably rather skin dive in a holding tank at the dankest level of a sewage treatment plant in Calcutta rather than take on a class of 28 snarling apathetic teenagers.

It was around October and I was doing OK in the class, had a B-/C+ line straddle going on. It was a bitch but I was coping and fairly happy. Then SHE came along. I don’t remember her name which is probably the only reason she is still alive. In my mind’s eye I see her as a blobbish, vaguely feminine shape with cropped blond hair and a piercing stare. I put her age at 40 but it was probably closer to 22. All of this matters not, for she was the Devil come to make me pay for slacking through my Freshmen and Sophomore years of high school.

She announced that she would be our student teacher for the remainder of the semester and a chunk of the 3rd quarter. Then she went to the board and wrote something incomprehensible yet vaguely math-like. Then another archaic equation went up. I tried in vain to copy what she was writing, but it was like a monkey taking dictation on stock market tips. Sure it can be done but when it’s over you are left with an illegible mess most likely covered in feces and crude drawings of bananas and more feces.

As the days became weeks I watched my grade plummet. Try as I might I could not understand a damn thing this woman was trying to teach. It wasn’t the material, it was HER. Just knowing the material isn’t enough to teach, a mistake many, many people make. I was completely baffled in that class and her teaching style failed to convey the information. Mainly because her teaching style consisted of throwing up equations on the board then giving out homework assignment with little to no explanation.

It wasn’t just me struggling in that class, several of us were complaining. But for me it went beyond that. This wasn’t just one class to get through, this was MY FUTURE. If I didn’t pass I was screwed on getting into college and this stupid twit was causing my GPA to crash and burn faster than “Toonces the Cat” on the Autobahn. At the end of the second 9 weeks I had an F with a Semester grade of a D. Midway through the third 9 weeks I still had an F.

The future was grim. I was starting to look hard at tech school. Air conditioner repair was beginning to look like a viable career option. I began to see television’s vocation school advocate Sally Struthers not as an overweight washed up actor obviously paid weekly in delicious Hostess Ding-Dongs, but a light shining in the darkness that was my grim immediate future post-high school. One day I heard you could make good money working the fishing boats in Alaska. I decided I would change my identity and embrace the Inuit way. I would be Nanook of the North and would ply the trade of a simple fisherman. The idea appealed to me. I made up my mind to buy a parka and galoshes the very next weekend.

Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished. Back to the Stygian depths whence she came. There was much celebration at this news and steadily my grade rose until I was able to pull a C for the 2nd semester, cementing my acceptance into college and propelling me on the path I enjoy today.

I don’t know what happened to her. Hopefully she flunked out of school and now blows dock workers for crack money. But I’ll never forget her.

Incidentally, I made it about a semester in Psych before switching majors so that chemistry debacle could have largely been avoided. Of course, there is the very real possibility chemistry class may have saved my life years later.

But that is a story for another day.

TylerDFC spends his days wishing he was anywhere other than where he is. When he is not, he can be found ruminating on pop culture at www.Criticult.com.

At this point,upcoming musical acts have to throw together random words they see after a vicious scrabble tournament, crossword puzzles on the  tour bus floor, or just point at things like Brick from Anchorman… then add extra letters (ex. Puddle of Mudd).

" I love lamp! I love stapler! I love mud!"

One of these methods undoubtedly led to the nonsensical band name Shaman’s Harvest.

Shaman: An individual who is a medium between the visible world and an invisible spirit world and who practices magic or sorcery for purposes of healing, divination, and control over natural events.

Harvest: The act or process of gathering a crop

We had no idea that shamans dabbled in the farming industry between chats with the dead.  However, we assume that someone who has the ability to ask the recently deceased Corey Haim WHY HE HAD A POSTER OF ROB LOWE on his closet door in The Lost Boys could also grow the shit out of some soybeans.  And so on.

For the love of God, Haim, why?

Shaman’s Harvest is an alternative metal band from Jefferson City, Missouri. Their newest single from their album “Shine” entitled “Dragonfly” is currently making a large impact on radio with the single continuing to rise on Billboard’s Rock Songs chart. They have also recently recorded a song”Broken Dreams”, which currently is used as the theme song  for some WWE oil drenched maniac named Drew McIntyre.

Dreams? I break you.

Shaman’s Harvest opened for AC/DC last month and is currently on tour with Adelita’s Way and “object pointers”  Puddle of Mudd, performing at Rockfest on May 15th in Kansas City, MO and Rock on the Range on May 23rd in Columbus, OH.

Check out our 20 minute audio interview with guitarist Josh Hamler as he breaks down the band’s history, their recent success with “Dragonfly”, and how they are prone to injury.  They currently have  one band member in a cast and another in a wheelchair.  At least they don’t have a one armed drummer.  No, we are not fucking kidding you.

Enjoy.

Shaman’s Harvest Website

Shaman's Harvest before casts, wheelchairs.

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It's not often that a masseuse makes an entrance on a horse. It's quite breathtaking.

This happened to me today.

I’ve been stressed for weeks and in dire need of a massage.  I make my appointment yesterday for this afternoon and it couldn’t get here fast enough.  I go to the spa and wait in the waiting area until I hear a beautiful angel sing my name.  I look up and much to my initial delight I see a glorious specimen of a man with a bright white smile and large hands waiting for me to accompany him into the small, soundproof room with nothing but a bed.  And by bed, I mean massage table, of course.

He tells me his name, but who cares, I’m just here to have sex with him.  And by have sex with him, I mean get a massage by him, of course.

He leaves the room and I undress per his suggestion and, Holy hell!  What panties are these?  These are, like, from tenth grade!  Gross!  Take them off. I take them off and throw them in my pile of clothes.  Wait.  You can’t take your panties off.  Are you crazy!  He’ll think you’re a freak.  Put them back on. I put them back on.  Much better, that was a close one. Then I go to get on the bed/table… Oh FUCK!  Did he say face up or face down?  I mean, how could I not have paid attention to that?  It’s one simple direction and I can’t remember what he said.  I’m gonna look like a total idiot.  He’s not gonna want to marry me now.  He’s not even gonna want to make out with me.  He’s probably only into smart girls who take orders.  I can be that girl!  I AM that girl, dammit! Sweat starts dripping down the sides of my torso.  Why didn’t I put deodorant on today? Who the hell gets a massage and doesn’t put deodorant on?  Of all days!  Who doesn’t put deodorant on to get a massage?  I’m a sweaty gross idiot.

“Are you ready, Sonny,” comes from behind the door.

“Nooo!”  With way too much panic in my voice.  “I mean, no, give me just another second… But, don’t just come in after a second, I mean ask me again if I’m ready for you to come in… not actually in a second, I won’t be ready in an actual second of course, ask in like, a minute, or six.  Make it six.”

Jesus Christ.

Revlon CoverStay: It means fucking business.

I take out the mirror that’s in my purse.  Bad decision.  Revlon has a lipstick called CoverStay and that shit stays.  It means fuckin’ business.  I put on super red CoverStay two nights ago and it looks like I put it on two seconds ago.  I can’t get it off.  It’s insane.  But, no other makeup is on my face.  Just super duper bright red, whore-lips.  Just as I thought.  I mean, I knew I didn’t have normal-person makeup on, but I thought maybe there was a miniscule chance that somehow it magically appeared due to my strong-ass willpower, like in The Secret, how you can will yourself to not have cancer or get a bike.  No luck though.  My strong-ass willpower totally blows.

Apparently six minutes had gone by and I was in no better shape to see Mr. Gorgeous-Big-Hands-Bright-Teeth-What’s-His-Name.  “Sonny?  We good?”

I dive onto the bed/table, face down, pulling the blanket up to the nape of my neck, “Super good.”

The door opens.  More sweat.

“So, it says here you like it a little hard.”  Obviously he’s walking right in to whatever I say and SO much could be said here…

“Yes, indeed.  And rough.”  Nervous laughter.  Mother of God.  And rough.  Whore.  I didn’t even mean to say that.  It just came out.  Do people say that about massages?  They do, I think.  Rough massages?  Yes.  People can totally say they want a rough massage.

He laughs and asks if I mind if he pulls the blanket down to expose my back.

“I don’t mind at all.  Pull it all the way off if you so desire.”  Nervous laughter.

Shut the fuck up.  From now on it’s yes and no answers only you raging moron.

My masseuse really enjoys Checkers.

He laughs again and pulls the blanket down.  And then the touching commences.  And the rubbing and the caressing and the fondling.  Okay, no fondling, but the rest is true.  And how can someone relax with all this fondling going on?  HOW??  All I could think about was whether I had enough side-boob exposed to look sexy, yet not slutty.  And for the record, they can totally tell when you’re tensing up and flexing your muscles, you can’t lie your way out of that.

As he was fondling my arms I couldn’t help but flex them, I mean, I don’t want him to think I’ve got flabby arms.  I don’t!  But when you’re just laying there and the muscle’s all loose, it looks flabby!  It feels flabby.  “Just relax, Sonny.”

“What?  Oh, I am.  You’re doing great.  I’m so relaxed. Just really, really, extremely, yeah, really… you know, really relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.  You’re all tensed up.  Let your arm fall into my hands.”

“It is, I swear, you have complete access to my body.”  WHAT?

He let go of my arm which stayed exactly where it was, elevated and stationary in midair which, incidentally, was causing me sever back discomfort.

“Oh, right, I see, you mean just let you have control over my arm.  Got it.  You’re like, one of those dominate guys aren’t you?”  Nervous laughter.

What happened to yes and no only?  Shut up, shut up.  We JUST had this talk.

He moved down to my legs and then it hit me like a ton of bricks, “Can you see cellulite from this angle?  FUCK!  No, no, no, no!  Not the legs!  Not the legs!”

“Relax your legs, Sonny.”

There was no fucking way that was happening.  I couldn’t do it. It was impossible to do.  My legs were flexed and my toes were pointed and my back was arched and my ass was raised just so and in my mind my body looked freakin’ fabulous.  My face, on the other hand, complete contortion.  I mean, this ultra sexy pose was painful.

After those grueling twenty minutes of leg exercises, he had me turn face up and he put a cloth over my eyes and leaned over my body while forcing my head back and forth and let me tell you… this seemed familiar.  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but… this I know and this I like.  I parted my lips instinctively, searching and waiting for his amazing full lips to warm mine.  I waited, like, a good ten minutes.  Nothing.  I finally realized kissing wasn’t part of the program.  I mean, it’s not like I was searching for a happy ending.  Just a kiss.  Big deal.  This shit happens in movies and Thailand all the time.

After what seemed like four hours, but was really 50 minutes, he told me he was going to let me rest and he’d meet me out front with some water.  Frankly, I welcomed it, Lord knows I could use the rest and everyone needs water after a workout.  Did I just run a marathon or get a massage?  Why are my legs shaking so badly?  And holy shit, was my ass clinched that ENTIRE time?  I’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow. But I’m extremely confident my butt looked really hard and tight and perky and round and small

Perhaps I should've waxed.

through the two blankets and the sheet, so at least there’s that.

He then told me I could take my time.  Gee, thanks.  I felt so used.  I mean, I just worked my ass off for nearly an hour; trying to be sexy and dainty and feminine and gorgeous and in-shape and stunning.  The whole time I was trying to ooze sex appeal, but was most assuredly only oozing last night’s vodka.  And lest we forget the sweat.  Always the sweat.

Was it worth it?  I mean, I’ve never been so stressed during a massage and I’ve certainly never left a massage with my back more messed up and with more pain than when I got there and I’ve definitely never spent more on the tip than I did on the massage itself, but all-in-all, yeah, I’d say it was totally fucking worth it.  Even after I noticed that my panties were on backwards and inside out, which I really should have noticed sooner, because ouch, not comfy…  And, obviously, I could go for a massage.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, especially if you DIE there.

Visiting friends in Las Vegas a couple of years ago, I found myself at a popular night spot living it up with my entourage plus a group of local MMA aspirants. At some point late in the evening my Friend and his Wife indicated they were ready to leave. Apparently once you hit your forties, anything past 9PM constitutes the next day. I’ll let you know if that’s true when I get there – if I get there. By and by, Wife came to the bar to collect me as I was in the midst of buying another round of shots for my brand new pugilistic pals. I unwisely responded that I was having too much fun to leave and that they both should go on ahead without me.

One of the fighters concurred, saying that he and his friends would be glad to drop me off after the evening’s festivities. That seemed only fair, since this was the third round of drinks I’d bought for all of them. Far be it from me to judge the motivations of others, but there’s no faster way to become a man’s best friend than to lend him money, or get him drunk – and the jury is out as to which is cheaper.

But this is all academic – I didn’t have a car and was already far too hammered to have driven one anyway. In fact, there’s a point where you have become so inebriated that it’s actually illegal for you to walk in public, let alone drive - and if you don’t believe me, stay tuned to this space for the evidence.

This night I was enjoying sitting at the bar, discussing Mixed Martial arts with a group of actual fighters who flattered me by saying that I looked like I could be one of them. Don’t bother wondering about that; I am no 98 pound weakling but I am also well aware that every word spoken in a bar after dark is largely bullshit. Yet I do enjoy being buttered up, particularly when I know that it isn’t true. And more important, my drunk friends promised to return me home safely. And when one drunk guy promises another drunk guy something such as “I will never repeat this to anyone” or “Let’s open a restaurant with your kids’ college fund” or “I’ll give you ten bucks to eat that whole jar of pickled eggs”, that is a sacred bond that cannot be broken.

I was as good as home, and I said to Wife just as much.

So Wife wrote down directions back to the house on a cocktail napkin, which definitely isn’t the sort of thing a drunk moron is likely to lose in a bar when he’s had more to drink than Lindsay Lohan on New Year’s Eve. Wife asked me if I was certain of my decision and I replied that yes, of course I was. There are after all, at least these two Universal Truths about being drunk:

1. You are always sure of everything, and there’s no such thing as a bad idea.
2. You’re not really drunk, and anybody who says otherwise is an asshole.

Armed with this ironclad logic and my cocktail napkin fail safe, I continued the evening’s festivities. Wife texted me a few hours later to check in, and the last recorded communication received from me was reportedly:

Dooing a a-ok

Sadly everything was far from a-ok, for in the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.”

Truer words were never spoken, except perhaps by Dean martin: “You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.”

I am neither a great writer nor a great drunk but on this night I would set in motion a series of events that would allow me to come as close as I probably ever will to at least one of those things. As predicted, I promptly misplaced the cocktail napkin containing Wife’s directions. This ensured that when it was time for my roguish mates to drop me off, nobody had any idea where to take me. At the time I was about as familiar with getting around Las Vegas as I currently am with getting around Prague, Austria or Vladivostok, Russia. This ensured that if someone were to say, just deposit my unconscious hulk in the safest spot they could find that I’d never find my way home in a million years. But the next day, my unfamiliarity with the Las Vegas metropolitan area would be remedied over the course of many very brutal hours. I would soon become as intimately familiar with all 113 square miles of Sin City as I currently am with how to use a fork. After leaving my wallet at the bar and my cell phone lying just outside the front door I would wake up in a strange place, jarred to awareness by the piercing shriek of a terrified Mexican woman screaming bloody murder.

Somewhere on the internet Robert Downey, Jr. is chuckling as he reads this, saying to himself:

“Yeah, I’ve done that.”

Thus began my Las Vegas Death Trip. It was a 19 Hour Journey of Pain, Redemption and Blunt Force Trauma, during which I found little help and even less pity waiting for me at every stop. Without a cell phone I couldn’t call for help and without any form of identification, I might as well have been a visitor from the future. Nobody wanted shit to do with me, and by the time it was all over, I had learned the most valuable lesson of all regarding the human race:

Deep down inside we all despise one another – but most of us are either too comfortable or too tired to act on it. To this day, my right ankle still hurts whenever its cloudy.

Click here to see the interactive Google Map of the worst day of my life.

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This interview gets DEEP. We thank Ryan for both his honesty and twisted sense of humor. Enjoy and go to drowningpool.com for updated tour info.  Also, we apologize if anyone was misled that this was an official 60 Minutes interview.  At no point does Andy Rooney show up to offer his wisdom.

Since this interview is huge, here’s a chapter list:

0:00  Intro / Tour / Shitting Etiquette on a tour bus / Milli Vanilli / Rock on the Range / KISS / Cheese and Fire

100% Rooney-Free Interview!

10:00 Vocal power / Express it in 10 / Same band in studio first time / Cornucopia of hate / Writing credits / Feel like I do / Music industry sales expectations

20:00 Tracks:  Let The Sin Begin / Feel Like I Do / Turn So Cold

30:00 Tracks:  Regret / Over My Head

40:00 Tracks:  All About Me / More Than Worthless / Children of the Gun

50:00 Tracks:  Alcohol Blind / Horns Up / King Zero

Drowing Pool Album Review

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Famous picture of Rusty "Trigger Happy" Mccombs circa 1867. First photo that combined the middle finger with "the horns."

What do you call a rock album that starts with the lyrics “Kill the ghost, that hides in your soul” and ends with the lyrics “I’m gonna pee on the ground, then I’m gonna jump around.” You call that album Slash.

The song "Out Ta Get Me" was about Axl's fear of plastic surgeons and hair implants. It seems his paranoia was justified.

Since 1994, after Guns N’ Roses disbanded acrimoniously, Slash has released two solo albums, two Velvet Revolver albums, and guested on multiple artist’s albums.  During that same time, Axl built an underground lair, played hopscotch with imaginary circus midgets, invested in ginger colored dreadlocks, and spent $15 million on a failed attempt at another Guns N’ Roses album.

While none of Slash’s efforts have matched up to the songwriting genius of Appetite and Illusion, they have all had some great jams, riffs, and solos.   Bands are always the sum of their parts, and Slash was always the soul of G’nR.  That being said, Slash’s 2010 self titled collaboration with 12 different singers Kills Axl Dead and will absolutely outsell Chinese Democracy.

At first look, setting up this guest singer extravaganza seems like an evil idea from a label executive to duplicate the sales success of Santana. And you know what?  It probably was.  This helps explains why Fergie is on the album.  Is it Guns N’ Roses? Hell no.  But by Slash co-writing with various artists, he has made his most consistent post-G’nR album with just as much focus put into the actual songwriting as the guitars and the production is nearly identical to Appetite and Illusion. Here’s the breakdown.

Ghost- Ian Astbury: The lead singer of the Cult sings, as previously mentioned, -”Kill the ghost, that hides in your soul - Rock and Roll.” I can understand why you would kill the ghosts in Poltergeist – and Casper for just being fucking annoying- but a ghost named Rock and Roll?  That just sounds like a dude I would sit down with and share a pint.  Regardless of Ian’s misplaced aggression, the  songs riff is instantly memorable and it’s a great opening track.

Crucify the Dead – Ozzy: The first couple times I heard this slow burner, I thought that Ozzy was mumbling about corpses, trains, black magic, or

In Ozzy's fantasy, the frog represents Sharon.

fantasizing about killing Sharon.  You know, the usual topics. Then I heard the line “a loaded gun jammed by a rose.“ I pulled up the lyrics online and discovered that this is Slash’s love letter to Axl delivered by non other than the godfather of metal.

The thorns are not around your head
Your ego cursed you till you bled
You cannot crucify the dead
To me you’re dead, yeah

Yes, Slash is rock’s Tony Soprano.  “Axl?  He’s dead to me. ”

Fergie, bikini, water, humps, etc.

Dangerous Beautiful – Fergie: This is an obvious attempt to grab a younger demographic, known in the industry as “teenage chicks who listen to Black Eyed Peas.”  Since BEP have sold more than 25 million albums, this is an attractive niche market.  I have no problem with Fergie on this record if it pulls a new audience to discover Slash and get into this style of rock in general.  Plus, she pulls off a pretty damn good kilt-wearing redhaired stepchild impression.  With it’s staccato vocals and “You Could Be Mine”-ish pre-chorus, this turns out to be a much better idea than Slash and Fergie covering “My Humps”, “Let’s Get Retarded,” or updating “Paradise City” with Sen Dog from Cypress Hill on backup vocals.  That last idea would be preposterous.

Back From Cali- Myles Kennedy: When I first glanced at this title I thought this was going to be a cover of LL Cool J’s “Goin’ Back To Cali”  and I imagined what Slash would look like wearing a Kangol.  It’s actually an original song, one of the best on the album, and sung by someone I’ve never heard of.  Slash picked Myles Kennedy (lead singer of Alterbridge) as his touring vocalist and I can see why.  His voice has the roughness of Josh Todd of Buckcherry and he can hit the high notes to cover GNR classics.

Promise- Chris Cornell: It wasn’t too long ago that Mr. Soundgarden thought it would be a splendid idea to collaborate with hip-hop producer Timbaland and released the worst CD in the history of recorded music …. or the greatest comedy album of all time.   It sold 17 copies, all used as gag

We are not fucking kidding you. This album exists. In HELL.

gifts.   It was called Screamwhich was exactly what everyone did when they listened to 30 second samples on iTunes.  While the song “Promise” is a return to form, I would still like a legal document from Mr. Cornell with a promise to stay at least 300 yards away from Timbaland.

By The Sword-Andrew Stockdale: This was the first single, features one of Slash’s best solos, the lyrics are nonsensical babble ( about swords, I think), and sounds like everything on Wolfmother’s latest solid release Cosmic Egg. In other words it sounds exactly like White Stripes, Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath.

Gotten-Adam Levine: The lead crooner of Maroon 5 stops by to offer a grammatically challenged ballad with the lyrics “You’ve got me like I’ve never been gotten before.”  According to WikiAnswers

Face Raping Alien = Adam, Human = English Language

“The British stopped using the past participle “gotten” about three hundred years ago, the American colonists and their descendants–especially in New England–still tend to use it even though many English teachers have tried to ban it’s usage. ”

Either Adam is a rebel who enjoys face raping the English language or he has just watched Bring It On too many times (“Bring It?  It’s been broughten.”)

Doctor Alibi – Lemmy: If anyone needs medical attention it’s Lemmy. This is a man whose face looks like the surface of the moon and has conducted a 30 year case study on what smoking 17 packs of Marlboro Reds and having a quart of Jim Beam for breakfast on a daily basis does to the

Lemmy on the cover of Esquire's 2010 Man of the Year

human body.  He also has a voice that makes AC/DC’s Brian Johnson sound like Placido Domingo.  He is told by a doctor – that apparently enjoys malpractice lawsuits- “You’ll be alright, just keep doing what you love, every single night.”  What’s more shocking than this advice is that it’s one of my favorite tracks.

We’re all going to die-Iggy Pop: I don’t know that much about Iggy except that he really enjoys starvation, leather pants,  and doesn’t own a shirt.  “Hey, I really like you’re tits, I’ll say anything that fits.” This poetry, rivaling the work of Henry David Thoreau,  leads to Iggy singing about pissing on the lawn,  dancing a jig, and opting to not pay his bills.  This and Lemmy’s track are the sleaziest and most G’nR-sounding on the album.

M. Shadows of Avenged Sevenfold and Kid Rock are also along for the ride. And their songs are pretty fucking great, but they might as well be from their respective bands.

Nothing to Say – M. Shadows sounds like a standard fast rocker from Avenged Sevenfold. Not a bad thing by any means, but there is a very little “Slash” sound in this one. Same with the Kid Rock song I Hold On. It’s a great song, but if you heard it on the radio you really wouldn’t have known this was from an album attributed to Slash.

And that is really the only issue that I have with this album. It’s well produced, the songs are all good, but there are very few tracks that just scream that they came from Slash with the exception of the before mentioned tracks and Watch This featuring former Gunner Duff McKagan and Dave Grohl on drums . It’s a jam session between the 3 heavyweights and really puts the focus on Slash’s guitar playing, sounding very much like an extended solo from a long lost G’nR song.

Bottom line is this is a great rock album. Pick it up and be very happy with some straight out R n f’n R.

The name of the band conjures up one word with anybody who has ever heard of them:

Bodies.

I never owned a DP album before I came upon their 2007 release Full Circle but was very familiar with the song “Bodies.”  I have no clue what it was about except it involved bodies that hit the floor.  Several times.  I’m not sure if I even liked the song but the chorus has stuck with me like herpes. I can’t get rid of it.

I did know that after their debut album became popular their lead singer unfortunately
died and at one point Rob Zombie was possibly on deck to record vocals for their sophomore release after contributing a track together to the Darevdevil soundtrack in 2003.  Well, the director of House of 1000 Corpses never showed up to work and they released an album with some random dude singing and a saline infused porn star on the cover. I never heard it. Shortly after they vanished from Planet Rock.

Sadly, sometimes sex DOESN'T sell.

Flash forward to 2010.

Drowning Pool is set to release their 4th studio album, creatively titled Drowning Pool, on April 27th.  Because RUFKM.NET is such an influential force in the music industry, 10th Street Entertainment has trusted us with  a copy almost a month prior to it’s release.

I  bought their last album, Full Circle, after hearing “37 Stitches” on Sirius/XM’s Octane every 37 minutes.  Then I saw them destroy West Palm at Crue Fest last summer.  While the album had several bright spots -many of those due to new lead singer Ryan Mccombs – it was a bit disjointed and seemed like a transitional album.

Well, that transition is OVER.  I have heard this album on headphones at the gym, driving down the highway with the top down, and cranked on my home stereo over the last few days.  Every time I hear it I have one thing to say:  Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

The recording of Drowning Pool is the first time they have entered the studio with the same singer and on the same label.  The result is a muscular, focused sonic assault infused with melody and attitude that sounds like a cohesive band.  The 11 tracks on the album have been

According to page 2,321 of the new Health Care Plan, all Americans are required to purchase Drowning Pool's new album.

stripped to the bone clocking in at just over 35 minutes.  Bands these days seem to put EVERYTHING they record in the studio on their album resulting in 15-20 tracks and tons of filler. The short running time is a welcome change as I like 9 out of the 11 tracks. While the modern production is similar to many bands in their genre, the range of Ryan Mccomb’s vocals and their grasp of an infectious bridge and chorus is unique.  From the concert ready anthems “Feel Like I Do” and “Horns Up” , the croon/scream of “Over my Head”, the Skynyrd / Black Label Society-ish guitar and vocals of “Alcohol Blind”, and the killer bass line of “Children of the Gun”,  one thing remains constant: It fucking rocks.  On the album opener, “Let the Sin Begin”, Ryan sings “Got an Indiana heart with a Lone Star state of mind.” Couldn’t agree more.

But enough from me. Check out the first 8 minutes of an hour long discussion with Ryan Mccombs.  He discusses the album, tour, and VERY honest revelations about the inspirations behind the new songs on Drowning Pool.

YouTube Style with snazzy pix:

Quicktime Version:
[qt:http://www.rufkm.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/ryanyoutube1.m4v 480 240]

Want to hear the whole thing? Go here for the full interview featuring a track by track breakdown of Drowning Pool.

Past Shenanigans: 13 Stupid Questions with Ryan Mccombs of Drowning Pool

Well folks, it’s here – the moment every college hoops fan in America has been waiting for. As of today, March 28, you have your 2010 Final Four! On April 3, Butler will take on Michigan State, while West Virginia will take on the Duke Blue Devils to determine who will meet for all the marbles in the…er…let’s see. There’s the Sweet Sixteen, the Elite Eight, the Final Four…you know, I have no idea what they call the last two. The Terrible Two? No, that’s stupid. They’re the two best teams in the Tournament. They’re definitely not terrible.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Well anyway, we’ve almost got our Champion folks, and I couldn’t be more stoked. Who could have foreseen all the drama and excitement we’ve had up to this point! We’ve had more upsets this year than I can remember – Gonzaga! Butler! Xavier! Cornell! Old Dominion! St. Mary’s! I have never heard of any of those schools, and I have no idea where they even are! I have no clue who any of these kids are who are playing, and to be honest, I really don’t know anything about the game of basketball, except that ‘defense wins championships’ and ‘it all happens in the paint’! I don’t even know what month they start playing!

All I know is that I just love college hoops…in March!

I live for this time of year – Winter is over, the air is getting warmer, the flowers are blooming and I can finally start paying attention to college basketball, even though it has been going on for months! It’s almost as great as October, when I suddenly become interested in professional baseball for a few weeks! I can’t wait, people! The level of excitement this year is almost as out of control as last year, when…uh…well you remember, the one game when…er…who were those guys? Well, you remember the team that won, don’t you? No, really. I am hoping you do because I don’t. But just look at our 2010 Final Four! It’s been a crap shoot and nobody expected this lineup! Name one person whose bracket is still in one piece! Just ONE!

Except me. I am still in it. Because unlike all these other posers, I truly love college hoops…in March! This is off the HOOK!

My 2006 Bracket was a cluster fuck.

March Madness is all about the love college basketball fans like me have for their favorite sport…in March! From the time it all starts in the month whenever it starts, all the way through the Terrible Two’s, March is when it all happens. Think of all those great stories, like the kid from that one school whose mother was on crack and his father is in jail, and the kid from that other school who made the last second shot that won the game against a different school a couple of weeks ago to take the number five seed! I don’t really know what a ‘seed’ is, but the more ‘seeds’ you have the more your team sucks. I think. Whatever.

It doesn’t matter. What’s important is getting your bracket right. And although I almost got destroyed in the first three days, I am still alive for the Final Four, because of one simple rule.

Look closely. Even the President follows my strategy. I rule.

Always respect Duke. And don’t bother telling me that they haven’t been in the Final Four in a long time; I already know that because I saw it on ESPN recently. But sort of like the New England Patriots, there’s a 40 percent chance they’re going to show up at the big dance every year. Well, this year Duke saved my bacon because the rest of my bracket got slaughtered. Those plucky kids from that school in…well, wherever it is…came through for me and made me the talk of my office. For two weeks the guys have been laughing and pointing, telling me I was a moron for picking Villanova and Morgan State, whoever they are. Well the joke’s on you, assholes! I’m the only one in my office left, so I get to claim the title of Hoops Guru! You see, the best thing about the NCAA Tournament is that nobody knows fuck-all about any of these teams, because nobody pays any attention to any of it until March.

Except for me. But feigning interest in sports you know almost nothing about is a male rite of passage that I happen to take very seriously! This isn’t a game people, this is serious, just like when the Summer Olympics come around and for two weeks every guy in America is totally an expert in Track and Field!

You want to know what my secret is? I love college hoops so much, I actually start watching three quarters of the way through February! I’ve got a whole two weeks up on the rest of the suckers in my pool, which is how I knew there was something about Duke this year. The Blue Devils are back people, and that team, and all the students at that school, and everyone in the state of…wherever Duke is…should be proud of what those kids have done. It is truly an inspiration.

Guess who wasn't invited Potter, you ugly bitch!

I know they’ve inspired me, because I won $500 from Potter in Accounting, and I have been waiting forever to get that jerk back for last year, when we both made it to the Final Four, but he beat me out. The lucky bastard picked whoever it was who won the Tournament last year, and I picked whoever I picked, who lost to that team. It was embarrassing. I will never forget his face as he taunted me over the loss of that one team to that other team. Why, I haven’t been so humiliated since 2006, when I picked whoever I picked that year. Man, I’ll never forget 2006. That was the year that one team upset that other team I didn’t pick and it knocked me out after just five games.

Sons of bitches. But thanks to Duke, I got the whole Accounting Team hammered last Saturday at Chili’s – on Potter’s dime! Thanks, Potter. I’ll send you the pictures on Facebook. BAM!

There can be only one.

Yeah…this year, it’s going to be different, Potter. You’re mine. You’re my bitch, and Duke is my pineapple. So bend over and prepare yourself, loser! Bring it! Let’s dance! I will prove my dominance over you by using the hard earned achievements of complete strangers against you as though they were my own. It’s on – and I will see you whenever it is the last game is scheduled – because there can be only one.

I wonder what they call the last team standing? The Omnipotent One? Oh wait – that’s me - because this year, I have all the Bracket Mojo, Potter! I will destroy you! I will see you in Hell, and you will kneel before me and proclaim me Hoops God in front of the whole office! Just be ready motherfucker…your ass is mine. Well, not literally. You know what I mean. Bitch.

Once upon a time you went to work out of high school or college, put in your 30 years or so, and then retired with a nice pension. Those days are long gone. People are considered the same as pens and fax machines: easily replaceable and totally disposable. The idea of the employee as a valuable and a necessary, unique component of the company has mutated into something much more disturbing. Now we are supposed to feel GRATEFUL to these companies for allowing us to work for them. It’s akin to the Cratchet family at Christmas dinner begrudgingly giving thanks to Ebeneezer Scrooge for the miserable salary he pays Bob. Yes, the company pays us a salary of sort. But between the 1% raises, shrinking benefits, and realization that at any moment you and hundreds of co-workers can be laid off with no warning, at what point do we realize we are getting ass fucked and then being made to say thank you after?

Our world is increasingly run by a handful of multi-national corporations and in that atmosphere a human life has less meaning than a paper clip. We are an asset, nothing more. It is time for change.

Enter Daniel Suarez’s Daemon.

Daemon is an acronym for “disc and execution monitor” and is pronounced {dee-mon}. Essentially it is a program that runs in the background, fully automated, and usually handles mundane activities such as log in requests, initiating transactions, etc. The titular daemon of Suazez’s thriller is initiated upon the death of its creator, billionaire software designer Matthew Sobol. 2 people are immediately killed under mysterious circumstances and Detective Pete Sebeck is called in to lead the investigation. Within hours several cops and federal agents are dead, the daemon begins taunting Sebeck, and the government desperately tries to keep a lid on the situation.

All of this happens by page 50.

To reveal more would be a disservice to the novel. Saying that a plot “twists and turns” has become something of a cliché lately. After all, a plot of any kind should “twist and turn” and keep the reader surprised. Daemon is one of the rare thrillers that really does shock and surprise the reader page after page. The true scope and intention of the daemon is not revealed until the last page and revelations about various characters occur all through the story.

For a techno-thriller the computer jargon is easy to follow for anyone that has a moderate understanding of computers and the internet. Even for a complete layman key elements are explained and anything truly technical (like the vagaries of hacking) is touched on briefly so that the reader understands the basics of what the character is doing, even if they do not fully understand techniques employed.

Daemon touches on several provocative topics: privatization of the military, slave labor in prisons for profit, exploitation of third world countries by multi-national corporations, the increasing threat of security failure in an interconnected world, and the fall of governments and vampiric corporations. Most interesting of all is the idea that maybe those things need to die so that the human race can finally move forward.

Has technology shown that capitalism is a flawed ideology? If so, what is the solution?

For anyone that wonders about the future we are headed in, and has grown increasingly frustrated with the state of the world and behavior of our companies and governments, Daemon is an eye opening experience. It is scary, exciting, but also strangely hopefully and a hell of an engaging thriller.

The sequel and conclusion, Freedom™ was released in January 2010.

The novel starts with the wizards of Unseen University in an uproar over a newly discovered stipulation in one of their most generous contributor’s stipend. It seems that to continue to receive the money, they must put together a football (soccer for the Yanks) team and compete against other teams in the capital city of Ankh Morpork . The next day, an ancient vase is discovered in the city museum that details the long forgotten rules of football. Suddenly, what started as a lark takes on a life of its own and as the match draws closer the fate of the city seems to hang in the balance. Maybe.

While the football match is the main plot thread the real meat of the story concerns the young (and brilliant) goblin Mr. Nutt; the headstrong cook of the Unseen University Night Kitchen, Glenda; her gorgeous assistant Juliet; and the love struck street ruffian Trevor Likely. How they get wrapped up in the inevitable football match and the part they play in the increasingly frantic events is best left to the reader to discover.

Like all Discworld novels the actual story is secondary to the sparkling dialogue, the witty descriptions, and the laugh out loud word play and satire that fills the book. This time out, Pratchett takes aim at college sports, fandom, the fashion industry, and higher education. Of course he also finds time to pummel politicians, a sheep like populace, fairy tales, and dozens of other concepts rife for the kicking.

I’ve been a Discworld fan for years. I haven’t read them all yet but this is just because I don’t want to tear through the entire catalog and then have to wait for another one to hit shelves, something that happens with astonishing regularity. Even more surprising is how damn GOOD each one is. For a series that is 30+ books deep at present, it is astonishing to me that Unseen Academicals is damn near perfect. The character interactions are surprising and fun. For a wizard-centric Discworld story, this one was surprisingly moving while also very, very funny. Some of Pratchett’s dialogue and descriptive passages are so damn dead on you want to get them tattooed on your body. Very few books can make me laugh as hard one minute, and nearly move me to tears the next simply on a brilliant turn of phrase.

My only quibble is the book wobbles a bit towards the end. This is in no way a derailment, and as I said, Discworld books are about the characters more than the events surrounding them. But the finale relies on a deus ex machina in a way I do not think I’ve ever seen before in a Discworld book. Maybe this was a satirical stab at the sports movie clichéd triumphant against-all-odds ending but in the book it feels cheap.

I was also a bit annoyed that the action of the match is largely conveyed by the editor in chief of The Truth, the Ankh Morpork newspaper. Pratchett can write action scenes very well, and I think the game could have been made more exciting for the reader if it were not being filtered through the newsprint of a reporter. Like all Discworld novels, Unseen Academicals is imminently re-readable and I’m sure in time these nitpicks I have will make more sense. One thing that is guaranteed when reading Discworld, you will not get everything the first time through. That’s one of the many reasons the series has endured for so long.

If this is your first foray into the world of Discworld, it’s as good a starting place as any. My personal favorite “gateway” book into the series is Guards! Guards! It sets the scene well and introduces many of the series recurring characters while delivering one hell of a great adventure story and acclimating the reader to the skewed Discworld. For longtime fans, Unseen Academicals continues the streak Pratchett has had since, well, forever.

Charlie Swift is a competent and brutal enforcer/hitman for Stan the crime boss of Orlando . But when Charlie is sent to retrieve a mysterious briefcase and ends up inadvertently murdering the owner of the briefcase AND four undercover federal agents all hell breaks loose. In no time most of Charlie’s friends are dead, Stan is missing, and Charlie begins a one-man crusade to take down the criminal element muscling in on Stan’s territory or die trying.

Anyone familiar with crime novelist Carl Hiaasen’s work will feel right at home with Gischler’s debut novel. The story moves fast and is filled with hard boiled dialogue that is easy to imagine coming from Tony Soprano’s mouth. Early on Charlie meets Marcie, the ex-wife of a guy Charlie had to whack, and they start a romance that throws a new monkey wrench in Charlie’s plans. On the one hand he just wants to get the hell out of Orlando and settle down with Marcie in Acapulco . On the other, he is driven by his loyalty to Stan to see the crusade through to the end. The story is lively and very fast paced as Charlie is forced to stay one step ahead of both the rival mob and the Feds

The anti-hero cutting a path of revenge is by no means a new idea in fiction, it’s shop worn enough to drive a groove into the pages. But Gischler keeps things light at time, and pretty funny as well. The somewhat wacky circumstances, like the use of a stuffed polar bear to distract a gunman, are off set well by a dead serious tone at times.

Noir/crime fiction is a difficult genre to pull off without sounding like you are aping better writers that have come before. Gischler pulls off the balancing act and infuses Gun Monkeys with wit, style, and enough heart to get to the finish line wading through blood and corpses all the way. That you still want a happy ending for a stone cold killer like Charlie is a testament to the man’s skills.

Hiaasen or Elmore Leonard fans would do well to pick up Gun Monkeys. It’s not going to change your life but I promise you will have one hell of a ride.