Yo! 51 Minds, Let's Make This Shit Real...PRONTO!

The other day Black Nathan called me up to give me some good news. It seemed that Rock of Love (sweet fucking christ if you're not watching this skanktastic train wreck of plastic surgeon enhanced daddy issues what the fuck is wrong with you?) would continue past this third season but with Glenn Danzig. They would re-title the show Rock of Love:Brides of Satan and goddamn if I wasn't giddy if not entirely skeptical. Of course, a 2 second research session later I found out it was just some bullshit a random kid posted on the VH1 messageboards. No big deal, but still a loss for all of us. When you think about it, of course it had to be fake. I mean, how many chicks under three feet that are into metal could they round up to act like they wanna fuck Danzig? You can't really have the ladies slut it up when they are barred from sporting the clear heels.
If, for some divine reason, the producers of Rock of Love decide to take this little idea with any sort of seriousness (really, what the fuck is Danzig doing aside from trying to find funding for his sure to be shit horror movie?) let me add some suggestions for the potential challenges on the show:
Who Can Produce the Best Fake Southern Accent Despite Being Born in New Jersey

Chicken Sacrificing Judged on Speed, Ease AND the Amount of Blood That Can Be Slathered Over Pert Titties

Defend Your Man After He is Knocked Out for Talking Shit to the Openers and Being a Total Dickwad

Who Can Change My Colostomy Bag in the Most EEEEVIL Manner

R.I.P. Lux Interior

The Cramps have long been one of my favorite bands. From the first moment I heard them (it might have been Return of the Living Dead or Near Dark or one of the myriad punk compilations I ravenously consumed in my pre-teen years...shit I think the first exposure of any sort I had to 'em was a poster on Christian Slater's wall in Gleaming the Cube), I was blown away. My parents were a unified front in never allowing me to purchase any of their tapes or discs when they took me to the record store but I made damn sure to head back out on my own, purchase and then hide those treasures well.
My column in the Daily Cougar, Stay Sick, was named after the first Cramps album I purchased and from them I learned to appreciate a lot of early rockabilly and country classics I might not have discovered otherwise. Those Songs We Taught the Cramps compilations you can find contain a wealth of awesome music to dig on. And even though they would be credited with the genre "psychobilly" Lux and Co. never felt that label truly described their music. However, they sure as shit set a standard all the slap-bass AFI wanna-be's will never near.
Live...they were always ferocious with Lux leading the way. The last time I saw the band perform he seemed to have never lost a step. Like a chicken-fried, high-heeled maniac he strut across the stage, fellating and draining multiple bottles of wine (note: this almost exact description which ran in my review is now you cannot use the term "fellate" at the Daily Cougar) while making you feel lethargic even though you were ragin' like no tomorrow.
To Poison Ivy, Lux's friends, family and fans, Please Kill Yourself offers their collective condolences.

The Boss Will Rape You in the Face

Jesus titty fucking christ who put the benny's in Bruce's water before the Haltime Show? I kept expecting him to dislocate a hip or eat it face first after jumping on the piano. But, man, that crotch slide into the camera? What in the fuck was he thinking. I'm sure the guy on the recieving end of the Boss' goods is gonna be suing for getting tea bagged on national television even though you couldn't see the actual event taking place.