Brenocide Returns

This is you.

I suppose if I was a glasses-wearing, chubby faced, curly headed Hispanic guy standing there, trying to enjoy an afternoon of live metal, only to find myself surrounded by the sweaty, mouth breathing, butt metal loving troglodytes that are pictured above; I myself would face extreme difficulty not strongly observing some of these winners instead of the performing stage act, while contemplating discussing with their mothers the option of a well overdue abortion. I mean, just look at these pathetic human accidents. Vaginal contact or earning a livable salary is already well out of the question. 


As you are all well aware; that kid was me. I might not be a Mexican with an afro, but the rage, the discomfort, the scornful look and maybe the admitted fatness; that's all me up there. I was continuously finding myself, night after night, rendered incapable of enjoying the live metal performances I spent so much of my hard-earned money on. I was so preoccupied with harshly judging you fuck-faced human losers surrounding me. Not to mention unsuccessful in ignoring the sour, oniony body odor your unwashed bodies emitted, as you clapped feverishly with Down syndrome-like glee at the music being played just for you.  

Yaay! My favorite song from Dystopia, yaaay!

This is sincerely how I feel about every single metal show attendee that isn't me. I'm done looking at you fucking retards. I used to delightfully pay for tickets with the sole intention of laughing at a room full of you dweebs, but the joke isn't funny anymore. You're just beyond redemption of any means. There is only great sadness in that. It's like you all walk into the venue with this intricate plan to do everything wrong, and execute it masterfully. Some of the names you kids proudly adorn on your t-shirts are not only musically sub-par, they bring the hard rock genre to a level of unmetal butt fuckery so severe that I wouldn't even sully my precious cornhole wiping myself with the black cotton they were printed on.

My silence over the last several months was directly correlated to my frustration. I think I found myself being recommended Septic Flesh's latest album one too many times and I just couldn't see the point in trying anymore. By the way, in regards to my extended absence, I have never heard a greater gaggle of baby butt rash having little dick sniffers sob and moan so hard in my entire fucking life. The whole lot of you are just a group of pathetic, suckling piglets, blind and frail; with all of your moist, quivering lips, puckering hopelessly in longing for the massive, sopping wet, rocking tits of Brenocide's unparalleled true metal genius. (No, I'm not talking about my hairy man-cans, it's just a metaphor.) I can't say I necessarily blame any of you for wanting more of me so direly. In terms of raw trutality among all things on the internet (AKA: your universe), I truly reign supreme. Of course you want more of what I have to offer, and you want it all the time. However, all of your incessant pleading, moaning and queefing falls upon deaf ears. Ears that have been specially deafened by years of listening to heavy metal music that is insurmountably better than the heavy metal music that you listen to. The aural assault on my unprotected ear canal was strictly intentional, rendering me totally incapable of listening to the people who are less metal than I am and that I don't give a shit about. (See: everyone.) I give such an insignificant microcosm of a shit at this point, that the fact that I only have to read your comments, and not literally listen to them -- thus voiding my entire explanation of why I haven't been considering any of your opinions -- doesn't even fucking matter to me. I will write posts when I am damn good and ready to write posts, and nothing you poseurs say or do will change that fact. You can either deal with that, or keep reading Metal Sucks and pretending to be entertained.

I will admit that you have all suffered the greatest amount of time in between writings since I started this blog. An entire five months. Holy twinkle toed tap dancing Christ shit. The brash audacity of me to make you wannabes have to go without for so long. Don't you twats have anything better to do with your time? Is porn already illegal or something? Judging from the entirety of my comments section, I'll assume most of you probably have the reading comprehension of a fourth grader. We're talking like an inner-city fourth grade, too. If you can even tie your shoes at this point, it would statistically be a miracle. So it more than likely took you longer to read my last violation than it takes someone to listen to the average death metal album. Yet Dying Fetus gets two to three damn years and nobody says a peep. Oh great; pig squeals, and blast beats. Great work and thanks for that Fetus, see you in a couple years, buds. In the mean time I'll go buy one of your t-shirts so I can walk around pretending to be hard. Fuck you. If any of you mindless drones want me to write posts faster than I'm willing to write them, you can blow me...

Alright, fair enough.

So where was I? Right -- I would go to these shows just to watch the bands perform and then I would leave. That was it. I would barely talk to anyone, I wouldn't look at anyone, I wouldn't even mosh anymore. My rage was always real, I would take it too far, and then one of you cunts would run and tattle; selfishly ruining the quiet night of the 6-7 bouncers it would take to physically remove me from the place.

Hope you brought backup, Dumbo. 

Let me tell you, I'm not afraid to admit that the last several months have been incredibly therapeutic. Believe it or not, I actually managed to fall in love with my favorite musical genre again, all because I made the effort to ignore its fans. Doctors marveled as my blood pressure dropped to much healthier levels. My back pain vanished somehow, as if almost magically. My overall quality of life vastly improved after I stopped concerning myself with you mortal wastes of time and the heavy metal laws you so commonly violate. Indeed, the world of Violations and even That's Not Metal felt well behind me, and this was a fact I was happy to accept. Brenocide it seemed, had cleaned his blade of the blood of poseurs, and mounted it for good. Never to grasp its leather-bound hilt again...

Left: Brenocide while he was writing TNM.
Right: Brenocide after he stopped writing TNM.

However...

Metal... she is a cruel mistress. Even though in my day to day life I had neglected to heed her call, in my nightmares she haunted me. The cries of true metal warriors pleading for the valiant return of their champion and savior were pushed to the back of my mind, where they resided to silently suffer. Choosing to ignore them didn't make them any less real. To make matters worse, my newfound outgoing, positive demeanor only left me more open for unwanted friendly advances from my fellow music listeners (if I dare call you such). Each of you with your own suggestions in how I should add increasingly shittier music to my playlist. It was as if in my new found happiness, I had brought on an even greater form of turmoil upon myself. It was at this point that I realized no matter how I approached life, I was doomed to be unhappy. If I'm going to be miserable anyway, I might as well be miserable while writing reviews of fake metal albums I know I'm going to hate. So fine. I'll start writing for the delight of you ingrateful sperm smears once again.

I hope you queefs are happy.

- Brenocide \,,/


P.S, 
Victoria, feel free to e-mail meeting places, scantily clad photos and any future sex-craved pleading to brenocide@thatsnotmetal.com 


Thanks