Heil Hippies!

If you're not already a fan of the kings of Norwegian "boner rock" the Cumshots then this video should quickly change that. Aside from playing kick ass music the band apparently likes to have euro-hippies who make porn to raise money to save the Rain Forest get down and nasty on stage. Do you think Al Gore is down with this level of commitment to environmental awareness? Would he bang Tipper on the lawn of the White House just to get W to admit that global warming is a reality? I think not.

The Finest Cinematic Performances in Punk Rock History

No one is ever happy with their success as a musician. It’s an unfortunate truth that we see everyday with the constant barrage of rockers, rappers, country stars and the occasional crooner trying to extend their talents to the art of acting. Sure it can be pretty amusing and some of these people ain’t too bad but I guarantee you they won’t be interviewed by James Lipton in this lifetime. What I find the most entertaining out of the whole pack are the old punk rockers from the 70’s and 80’s who’ve taken a stab at the silver screen. Therefore, get ready for the greatest cinematic performances from punk rock actors. Lee Ving of Fear in Flashdance I could’ve chosen the composer of the romantic ballad “Beef Bologna” for his work as Mr. Body in Clue but…FLASHDANCE? Lee Ving playing a sleazy 80’s club owner trying desperately to get into Jennifer Beal’s leotard is both funny and weird. After all, Lee Ving insulted a Saturday Night Live audience for about five minutes (John Belushi got them on the show) before exploding into a rock ‘n’ roll riot with loads of kids slamming into each other and stage diving. He then proceeded to viciously trash Ronald Reagan and his supporters to a barrage of boos and played “Let’s Have a War.” All of those cool points instantly vanished because of Flashdance. John Doe of X in Road House It’s funny that a skimpy porn-stache was all it took to make X front man John Doe look like a total sleazebag in mullet-fu opus Road House. He played the bartender who got kicked the hell out of a window via a Patrick Swayze round house kick and later would morbidly thrust his pelvis while firing off a shot gun. Still, as horrible as his participation in the project was it cannot diminish the awesome genius of “Adult Books” or “The World’s a Mess it’s in my Kiss.” David Johansen of the New York Dolls in Scrooged I struggled with this choice. Davie Jo has been in loads of stuff and it was hard to decide to include his turn as the ghost cabby in Scrooged or when he got shived by Nazi’s on an episode of Oz. The scariest part about the former Buster Poindexter as the demented cab driver in the holiday flick was that he looked a lot less scary in that make up than he did when he was all tarted up in the Dolls. Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics in a Porno Okay, Wendy was a truly remarkable front woman whether she was belting out songs about maggots, smashing T.V.’s and buses, or being the only chick to ever look sexy with a 2 foot Mohawk. Her career took a dark turn towards the end of her life (she committed suicide) but we can all get a giggle out of this underground classic. Do you remember that joke in the South Park Movie about Winona Ryder’s “ping-pong” trick? Yeah, Wendy does it for real.

Radio Anti-Romantica

The deal with my old work is that the employees either have to listen to a CD of Italian Festival “Favorites” or 106.9 the Point (they claim to play the best of the 1980’s and more, which I staunchly dispute). Yeah, it’s slim pickings on the radio dial. As a music nazi, it makes me go completely insane to hear shit that is only noteworthy in the annals of 80’s music history because it was featured in a fucking John Hughes movie. If all it takes to make your shit long lasting in our pop culture subconscious is play during a movie then why the fuck aren’t the Plimsouls or Josie goddamned Cotton in the rotation? But, I digress. So, since I am required to listen to the same 30 or so songs allow me to present you with my internal dialogue that kicks in upon hearing the first chord. Rick Springfield – “Jesse’s Girl” Rick, I’m so glad I’m not your friend. It’s not that I haven’t dated some girls that were previously companions to friends but I never fucking fantasized about them or the sex they were having with the aforementioned dudes. Oooh, you’re creepy. I’m willing to bet this song arose from a shitcanned subplot on whatever weak soap opera he was on back before he blessed us with his musical prowess. Falco – “Rock Me Amadeus” And the winner for the most pretentious song ever goes to…some German douchebag named Falco. Yeah, bro, you outshined Bono like the sun. If you have forgotten the dense subject matter of “Rock Me Amadeus” let me reacquaint you with the theme. Over a horrible drum machine, cheesy synthesizer and ungodly laughable sub-Poison hair metal guitar lick this guy (who sounds eerily similar to Penn Jillette) lists off the amazing accomplishments of the famed composer and then, to cap it all off, we are left with “In 1980 (something), German composer Falco records…R-r-r-r-r-r-r-ock me Amadeus!” Ok, shithead, you wrote something that sounds like it came pre-programmed on your fucking Casio and you have the balls to compare yourself to Mozart? The only good thing that arose from this unholy abomination is the Simpsons’ version used in their Planet of the Apes musical. Journey – “Don’t Stop Believing” & “Separate Ways” You know, why does everything associated with cancer come off in a negative light? Why is cancer so terrible overall? Sure, it claimed Thompson and Superman’s wife but if the new Hitler or Osama Bin Laden got some tumors would you really think it was a bad thing? Yeah, that’s what I thought. The fact that Steve Perry has throat cancer and can never befoul this world with his mullet shaking vox for these two tunes makes me really question my Atheism. There just might be some divine being intervening in this world for the collective good. And yes, the fact that I’m an Astros fan factored heavily into what you just read. FUCK JOURNEY! Peter Cetera – “The Glory of Love” & “After All” Whoa, whoa, whoa, Kenny Loggins! Where the fuck do you think you’re going? You have no right to the Ultimate Wuss Rock Throne, bitch. That is reserved exclusively for Peter Cetera. The guy who used to play bass for Chicago (oh, we all expected greatness from his solo career) has now ranked above Fred Durst on my must punch list. I guarantee you that if you look up the word “pussy” in the dictionary this guy’s pick will be greeting you next to the text. Come on, we all remember that song from the Karate Kid II and the scars still haven’t healed. By the way, didn’t Daniel san hit some Japanese gash in that flick? I haven’t seen it since I was like 10 but I remember him making out with the chick and then the fade to black. Well, if Peter Cetera helped get him laid then Ralph Machio needs to buff out that notch on his bedpost. Devo – “Whip It” FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING ELVIS WHEN WILL PEOPLE FINALLY REALIZE THAT DEVO IS ONE OF THE GREATEST BANDS OF ALL TIME AND NOT LAZILY FILE THEM AWAY INTO THE “GIMMICK BAND” CATEGORY JUST CAUSE THEY DRESSED LIKE NERDS IN HAZMAT SUITS? IF WE’RE GONNA CELEBRATE THIS AMAZING BAND ON THE FM DIAL THEN CAN I PLEASE GET SOME “GATES OF STEEL,” “UNCONTROLABLE URGE,” OR “JOCKO HOMO” MIXED IN WITH THE MTV HIT? NO? THEN QUIT FUCKING PLAYING IT UNTIL YOU LEARN TO SHOW SOME RESPECT! Nena – “99 Red Balloons” I actually dig this song. It’s as upbeat of a tune about nuclear holocaust as you can produce. I only wish that a. people will, 20 years later, a. actually understand that it’s about nuclear holocaust and b. the DJ’s will quit calling her Nina like her last name is Simone. Pat Benatar – “Invincible” Anybody else remember The Legend of Billie Jean? That shit was supposed to be Helen Slater’s big breakthrough but instead her little brother got the career out of aping Jack Nicholson. Oh yeah, Lisa Simpson was in that too and if you remember her aesthetic then you understand why she subsists primarily on voice work. Anyhoo, this was the big rally song in that flick when a bunch of Corpus Christi teens flocked to the beach so that Binx could get his prized motor scooter fixed up without some dickpig sticking it to his sister. Bon Jovi – “I’ll Be There for You” Who created this fucking planet? How in the world does some no talent studio rat fuckwad waltz his way into a lucrative recording contract and purple spandex simultaneously only to have the public eat it up? So, this is Jon’s big “monster ballad” and is just so saccharine that I can’t stomach it. We get it, Jon…you dig the hell out of this chick. We don’t need a five-minute song filled with horribly clichéd metaphors to understand that. Oh, and how about that line, “Words can’t say what love can do?” Yeah, bitch. You just helped me prove that this song shouldn’t have been written by the mutual exclusivity of your brilliant prose. Either words can say what love can do or they can’t, Jersey boy.

The Please Kill Yourself Guide to Proper Ball Park Etiquette

I love baseball and going to the games, but lately I’ve been noticing so much bullshit at the ballpark that I just can’t take it anymore. Seeing a game as it’s played in the park should be an incredibly enjoyable experience just like a rock ‘n’ roll show. But, like those glorious events, a few assholes always seem to arrive and fuck things up. If you don’t wanna be part of the growing problem then please follow these simple rules the next time you venture out to see your local ball club play nine innings. STOP DOING THE WAVE – This shit was supposed to be a fad in the 70’s but has miraculously managed to carry its way into the new millennium. Look, I don’t go to games to be seen. I go to watch the fucking game, man. So stop trying to get sections of the crowd to all stand up at once just for the overwhelming thrill of seeing a domino effect across the stadium. I always object to this practice and when the offenders are in my section and are obscuring my view of the play (usually in the late innings of a one run game) I start shouting obscenities and telling the fucktards to sit the hell down. I’m sorry you’re bored with the game but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Sit the fuck down and by the way, it’s still too soon after the recent Asian tsunami tragedy to do the wave and not be in obvious poor taste. And while we’re on the subject of absolutely retarded cheers…knock off the “OLE! OLE! OLE! OLE!” bullshit. This ain’t a fucking soccer game or Flogging Molly show, dickhead. CONTROL YOUR FUCKING KIDS - The last time I went to Minute Maid Park with Black Nathan, we were mere rows ahead of a little bastard constantly yelling for someone to give him a baseball and screaming like a goddamned banshee. Okay, mom and dad, before you take little Johnny or Susie to the game think twice before indulging them with two bags of cotton candy, six jumbo sodas and a few ice cream sundaes. I wanna hear the hecklers, crack of the bat and cheers/boos not your heathen offspring. And do not give me judgmental scorn when you hear expletives flying out of my mouth around your precious little angels. You’re watching a game where the players routinely adjust their crotches, spit, curse and occasionally brawl. Besides, a few “fucks” never hurt anyone’s adolescent development. DRESS ACCORDINGLY – Look, if you’re there rooting for the away team I totally understand you sporting their gear. I hate you for it, but it makes sense. That’s your team and you wanna show support. Cool. But, why the fuck are you wearing American League team apparel to an N.L. game? I love the Red Sox but you don’t see me rocking my Papelbon jersey at an Astros game. You’re a Cubs fan? First, I feel sorry for you and second, if they aren’t playing then leave the cap at home, bro. Oh, and if you’re one of the guys who roots for division rivals and wears both teams logos (Astros/Cardinals for example) you’re an idiot and need to make up your fucking mind. You don’t see that shit happen at Fenway, Wrigley or any of the real baseball towns. And ladies, please stop dressing like hookers. Does it really make sense to sport a mini skirt that stops at your labia, six-inch stiletto heels and a tube top that can’t contain your jugs at a baseball game? It’s not like you dolts are out trolling for dick…you’ve got a dude there with you sporting tribal tattoos and Dockers. Is the self-esteem boost you get from fat, drunken slobs drooling over your silicone ass really that important? FUCK YOUR CAMERA – Unless you have a NASA powered zoom lens or are sitting mere inches away from the dugouts your pictures are going to come out looking shitty. And if you just have to take a snapshot of you and your buddies blitzed out of their heads at the ballpark don’t move into the middle of the aisle during game play to capture that memento. In fact, just leave your cameras behind. Go down to the lower concourse and get a FREE, pseudo-professional photo to take back home with you. Even the organization knows how much of an annoyance this shit is and has come up with a pretty sweet solution to end the problem. Get with it. CELL PHONES AND THE PRIMO SEATS – So, this one comes watching the games on T.V. and happens just about everywhere. Right behind home plate and the protective netting are some of the sweetest seats a baseball fan can score. In Houston, they’re called the Diamond Club seats. I was lucky enough to catch the previous College Baseball Classic from there and they provide an amazing view to the game. Unfortunately, most of the people who sit there around various local celebrities and team staff spend games chatting on their cell phones and waving to the cameras. You are total prats. The loyal and die hard fans for the team that are at almost every game in the nose bleed section would sell their first born for a crack at those tickets. They would savor every second of being able to observe the pitcher’s mechanics, the defensive shifts, catcher moves and seeing the ball leap off the wood of the bat. They would not be talking to their yuppie friends constantly saying, “Can you see me in the shot?” with a mongoloid grin on their faces. Next time you come into possession of those coveted tickets offer them to someone sitting next to Mars, watch the game from their usual vantage point and hopefully you’ll understand the great privilege you somehow continually acquire. RALLY CAPS – If you really must relive this little league tradition because you think that turning your hat inside out will magically appease the baseball gods so that they will bless the maple of the 8 spot hitter then remember to turn that shit back to its proper form when the opposition is batting. What, you want those fuckers to rally too?

A song for the ladies (yes, this is real)

Y'know, it's good that music has moved beyond the shallow realm of women sadly lamenting over cheating guys. Now we've progressed onto casual accusations that wouldn't make a Maury Povich b-reel. While it is still fine for the people with penises to spout out "WHORE" or "SLUT" whenenver they feel it helps emphasize their infantile emotions, women are still expected to proudly sing "Be My Baby" even if their boyfriend is holding them hostage in a mansion. And is verbally abusive. And is physically abusive. And is an overall douchebag despite his artistic brilliance. Well, ladies, Riskay has stepped up and put all that shit in the bin bag. Be proud. http://youtube.com/watch?v=8VhPHtKinmA sorry I couldn't embed this but the author of this generational touchstone wouldn't allow it. J

Eat My Shit Black Nathan

Yeah, it's gonna be about the Red Sox. I'm still trying to comprehend living in a world where the Red Sox are feared. It's pretty fucking awesome. Even more awesome is the half-retarded, bat shit crazy closer they have named Jonathan Papelbon. You see, until this year, 2004 seemed like a fluke (a fucking glorious world ending one, at that) because of the disappointing playoff runs of the the following two years. Now, with the first post-Curse of the Fat Hooker Banging Drunk trophy, the world is suddenly anew. The possibilities for a bright and shiny tomorrow are endless. No longer are the members of the Nation hanging nooses from the rafters expecting a September or October collapse. They're all now saving money for bar tabs when the Red Sox...well...win. Papelbon's variation on the Irish jig is a sign of that optimism and unabounded elation. Shit, I did this in the middle of Fitzgerald's after he hurled his glove in to oblivion. And I never get tired of seeing it.

It has begun

Alright, so in order to keep Please Kill Yourself running, I've decided to take it into blog territory. My hope is that with my constant (and often drunken postings) I'll have enough content to do a hard copy of the zine since I know all you bastards love reading the thing while blasting dooks. I'm totally cool with that and I do understand how hard it is to find a good, quick read while on the throne. If I had a laptop I guarantee you I would just read Deadspin or WithLeather on the toilet. So, here we go. Expect the usuals: rants, reviews, no values, trash and chaos only in BLOG form. We'll see how this thing goes and hopefully it will aid in the resurrection of the long forgotten Fat Elvis Social Lounge. J