Using a Guitar as a Skank Accessory

A "Gio" Ibanez is really cheap. That makes two of them.

I definitely had a lot more fun writing this particular post than any of the other ones I have prepared thus far. Mainly due in part that the majority of the photographs I came across pertaining to today's subject matter were delightfully NSFW. I love the internet sometimes. But not all the time. Usually because the internet is chock full of pseudo-artistic females with a tendency to abuse Photoshop's filter gallery, and also the half-naked bi-products of inferior parenting who shamelessly pine for inappropriate male attention. If one however, were to combine the worst of both these groups, the result would be a scantily-clad girl suggestively holding a musical instrument. This is a clever way for many of these young women to translate to the world that they are "hip, edgy, artistic" and also "kind of a slut."

Babes holding guitars is by no means a fresh concept. Just ask Guitar World magazine. Much like babes with hot rods, babes with motorcycles, or even babes with guns, there has always been something tantalizing about a gorgeous woman getting her hands and body all over a piece of equipment that you would regularly use. Not to mention the not-so-subtle imagery of her dainty fingers firmly stroking the guitar's neck and her pink tongue curling around the tip of the guitar's head. Yowza. The big difference between Guitar World magazine and Facebook however, is that Guitar World hires paid models to seductively cling their expensive instruments in photograph. You are not a model. You are an average or under-average chick with a Squier that you keep in your room as a decoration.

She got a bass because she was told it would be easy. That makes two of them.

Don't get me wrong. The last place I want to be is on a side that opposes the act of women removing their clothing. The musician in me however, can't help himself. God forbid I strongly feel that a guitar is meant to be played. It is not a fashion statement. It is not an accessory. No matter how cheap or basic, an electric guitar is a tool to rock with. I hard press anyone to find an amplifier in the bedroom of any of these floozies. (If you actually do find yourself in one of their bedrooms, then high-five.) Unless of course the amp came in the box she bought the guitar in. In fact, if you asked her if she knew any "chords", she would probably start digging through that box to see if she could find the one that plugs into her amp.  

It is safe to say that I am fiercely skeptical of any of these fine ladies' guitar playing capabilities. I'm not claiming that women can't play guitar well, (as tempted as I am to say that outright to offend). I'm just saying that the ones who are serious about it don't spend their time posing with an instrument to turn on anonymous creeps on Myspace. Probably the biggest piece of evidence supporting my theory of their inabilities, is that almost every guitar you see in these kinds of photographs are the cheap, shitty ones. Squier seems to be pretty popular, as well as budget Chinese-made Jacksons, BC. Riches, Epiphones, etc. We're talking a $100-150 guitar here, at the most. Somebody who is serious about playing has developed an ear for guitar quality, and typically has saved up their pennies for something at least a bit more substantial. The second biggest piece of evidence would be that in the pictures where they are kind of pretending to play, they're always doing something wrong, whether it be the lay out of their fingers or the angle from which they strum the guitar. There is nothing less sexy to me than a woman with something in her hands that she doesn't know what to do with. It says a lot.

"DINK DINK DINK".  FAIL.

I honestly feel that a woman who can play a guitar and play it well is in a dozen ways far more sexy and attractive than some naked skank rubbing suggestively against her ex boyfriend's cheap axe. And I love naked skanks. 

If you're a woman who can actually play guitar, or if you want to make mention of any famous female shredders, let me know in the comments below! Any mention of "Kittie" and you've lost the game.

Job Interviews

"Yeah, well... we'll call you."

Let's hope you have a long-sleeve to cover up that regrettable ink, because it's interview time. The suits over at Costco are looking for some new blood, ever since their last stock boy was caught using in the break room. They have received your online application, and as such, only have your previous work experience and a creepily intrusive psychological evaluation to go on. (What's the difference between "agreeing" and "strongly agreeing" anyway?) They are completely oblivious to the strict opposer of acceptable social norms and personal hygiene that is about to walk in to their office.

The job interview is the sworn nemesis to a metalhead's pursuit of success. In the professional environment, first impressions are everything. Unfortunately, the first impression you would give someone as a true metalhead is "I'm going to eat your children". That kind of message doesn't go over well anywhere else in life, and the job market is certainly no exception. Believe it or not, some people actually like their kids. Even if you dress your funeral best, years of the world's angriest music has taken its toll on your personality, attitude and outside appearance in some way or another. They can just see it in your face. You are almost guaranteed to not get the job based on the fact that the 10-100 other applicants just don't look as creepy. Here is the decision making process for the person recruiting potential new employees:

Choice one: The clean-cut, healthy-looking gentleman who seemed friendly, confident, outgoing and had the necessary customer service experience to do the job right and well. He would make a great addition as a team player, and would be a representative of our company's image and quality that we would be proud of.

Choice two: You.

The odds are severely stacked against us from the get go. It's nothing short of a miracle that any metalheads ever get hired at all. The ones that do are either doomed to minimum wage, put as far out of the public eye as possible in some backroom or warehouse, or in one of the few jobs where your alternative appearance would be appreciated. (i.e, snobby record stores, tattoo parlors, Starbucks, etc.) The lack of work can be so frustrating, that one might go as far as to shave their face, cut their hair, and dress a little more socially acceptable. Don't do that.

Don't be a Metallica.

The day that metalheads find prosperity will be the same day that tattoos are freely acceptable in the workplace and nobody has to go to church anymore: When all the old people are dead. It only takes a few minutes of boring yourself with C-Span to realize that these stupid, close-minded old farts run the entire planet and all the major corporations. As such, the world runs the way that they think it should be run, with confused, ignorant, decades-old ideologies and standards. If you don't go to a job interview with Dick Van Dyke hair, it's enough to make them crap their depends. They just can't handle it. When considering the senior generation, anything that happened to the world or the human thought process after the year they graduated High School completely horrifies and baffles them. Try watching anyone over the age of 52 effectively operate a cell phone and you'll get my picture.

So I'm assuming they had you wear hair nets at this "Marty's Meat Market" you used to work at, right?

If you are one of the few metalheads lucky enough to be hired for the job, your next step is to make them immediately regret their poor decision-making. Be as lazy, egotistical, unreliable, and rude as you act in every other environment, but still do the bare minimum amount of work required to keep them from firing you. If you last long enough to be the first to get laid off, you can go collect unemployment checks and look as Metal as you want.

P.S,
You will never be a rock star. 

That Guy Standing at the Pit Rim

"EEEEEEEEEEK!! NOOoooooOOOO!!"

You just had to get the best view you could of your favorite band. The years of listening to those extreme metal albums by yourself on the internet and while driving in your hand-me-down Ford Focus all led up to this single, defining moment. You are finally going to see the creators of the soundtrack to your existence, playing your favorite songs live in front of hundreds to thousands of people! You promise yourself before you get there, that you will muscle your way to front and center, so you can get as close as possible to your metal masters in this once in a lifetime opportunity to witness their majesty. Unfortunately, the people who got there before you had the same idea, and they are a lot bigger and meaner-looking than you are...

There's not much you can do about it, so you get as close as you can. You position yourself behind this unwavering behemoth of an angry, long-haired hispanic man, tour dates from before you were born decorate his large, sweaty back in bold, red print. You can get still get a good glimpse of the stage from behind his right shoulder, and all-in-all, you are still pretty close to the stage. Anticipation runs high as you eagerly await for the band to get ready. After what seems like an eternity, the lights go out and cheers ring throughout the venue. When the lights come back, your heart races as you watch your heroes take the stage with instruments in hand, glimmering in the spotlight. A song you immediately recognize blares through the speakers at ear-shattering volume. This is the moment you've waited your whole life for, you finally feel complete as a true metal fan!

Suddenly, a circle of chaos erupts at your back. You break the gaze you convinced yourself you were sharing with the lead singer, and whip around to survey the commotion. All of these men are pushing each other and swinging their arms with reckless abandon! Against the giant Mexican's back you cower, narrowly avoiding the elbows and fists of these maniacs! It's all you can muster to shove away the ruthless brutes who bounce themselves off of you, elbowing you in the face and testicles without so much as noticing! Your fragile toes are crushed under the weight of their heavy, leather boots. You push them off and fight back the tears, thankful that the loud music drones out you wailing in pain like a small girl. For the remainder of the concert, you position yourself facing this free-for-all, no longer able to enjoy the musical act you paid good money to see. You couldn't possibly watch them perform, now that you are convinced you're fighting for your life! You flail your hands, shove, yell and grimace at your abusers.

Even though you feel frail and weak after your constant pummeling and near misses, you cross your arms in defiance. You think that maybe if by crossing your arms, you will look tougher, and it will make these crazy Neanderthals avoid you altogether. It's also a good way for you to inconspicuously clutch your stomach, because after that last guy bumped into you, it really hurts now.


Through your blurry vision, you manage to peer through the tempest of shirtless goons to the other side of the crowd, seeing if you can find a safe way to walk to the back of the hall without harm, and tend to your wounds. To your horror, you see a lone, young female standing at the brunt of their meat-headed massacre of bodies and limbs. You clench your fists in rage as you watch them carelessly spin and dance around her, without any recognition to the frail, fairer sex that stood before them. "How dare they!" You thought, no longer feeling any regard for your own well being. You have to rescue her!

When the next song begins, the gang of troglodytes begin to run after each other in a spinning motion. Seeing this as your opening, you dart across the empty center to the other side, rushing to the safety of your fair maiden. Suddenly, you feel the brunt force of a massive, hairy body slamming against you. His sweat pours into your eyes and mouth as you harshly meet the concrete and howl in agony. Not allowed rest, a dozen hands grasp you and throw you back on to your feet. You loudly object; begging to remain on the floor so you can play dead and hopefully be left alone.

Thankfully, the song ends, and the brutes pace around one another with murderous anticipation. You limp to the other side of the crowd to your true love, who thankfully, appears unharmed. You are not too late! Boldly, you turn your back to her and spread your legs in a defensive stance. Gloriously, you make a fist with your right hand and curl your arm into an "L"-shape, bringing it up to chest level and jutting it outward. They will not break this impenetrable wall you have created for the both of you... Even if it means losing your arm or your life. You could almost feel her falling deeply in love with you at your back, as she witnesses your selfless heroics. Chivalry will not die today!

When the band begins to play once more, you muster all of your might to stand your ground. More bodies pour into the cyclone of torment that whips and spins before you, yet you refuse to yield. The band's hit single is now a triumphant soundtrack to your moment of valor, as you defend your woman with all of your might. No kick is swift enough to falter you, no swinging fist large enough to break your stance. You fend off your tireless attackers with nothing more than your lanky appendage held out before you.The crowd cheers and chants as the song finally ends. It is the conclusion of the band's set, and you didn't get to enjoy a second of it, too occupied with the defense of yourself and your new-found love. With a soft smile and a sigh of relief, you turn to her, eager for her gratitude and the dewy look of lust in her eyes for you and your manmeat...

Yet, she is nowhere to be found.  She relocated herself long before the song ended, without giving you so much as a first, much less second thought. As the fantasy of your life-long romance fades from your mind, there is only anguish and pain from the onslaught you have received. It takes all of your strength to stagger out of the venue. The cold night air hits you with refreshing vigor, and you fiercely sneeze repeatedly as a chilling wind enters your battered nose. Clutching your injuries, you stagger from the entrance to the parking lot, poking yourself where there will be inevitable bruises. You have no idea how you will hide them from your mother's prying eyes. She may never let you out this late again.

You finally spot your mangled Ford, and upon opening the passenger side door, you crawl into the musty seat, grateful to still be alive. You wince and moan as you run your hands over your battered insides, praying that you are not bleeding internally. In the dark parking lot, you take time to sit in your vehicle and silently weep to yourself, wishing that grandma was still alive so she could kiss your little boo-boos.

Go home, wuss.

Being Vegan and "peta2"

Meat is murder. Delicious, juicy, murder.

I think the internet hate-storm that has been generated towards vegans and their 'holier than thou' attitude has already said more than I could ever fit in one TNM article. At first I considered not even bothering, but when you hear about hard rock musicians supporting PETA in their pursuit of a fascist new world order, where human beings are stripped of their natural instinctual need to eat meat and keep themselves warm with the fur of other creatures, you can't help but get a little peeved.

If you are not familiar with "peta2", it is a not-so-separate branch of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) that is designed to specifically target the demographic of young, impressionable adolescents who aren't mature enough to think for themselves yet. It's much like the Joe Camel of decades past. PETA has no shame, you see. As part of their malevolent scheme for world domination, they have turned their sights on the the fresh young minds of the world, ripe for the tainting. They also focus on the empty heads of dumb rock artists, who because of achieving fame and fortune with typically less than a high school education, aren't very smart either. They use half-famous, tattooed spokesmen and natural teenage rebellion to their advantage, transforming today's youth into pale, frail, protein-deprived pawns in their twisted game of global destruction. They are practically terrorists, setting out to destroy our fragile ecosystem by forcing their extreme ideology of making the planet's greatest carnivore into one big group of granola-chewing herbivore wussies.

Figures.
As if Oli Sykes hasn't already given me enough reasons to head butt him in the face. 

"peta2" recruits a brainwashed army of teenage drones to do their dirty work. Their website encourages its viewers to ruthlessly harass food and entertainment industries that may or may not have a supposed connection to a form of animal treatment that PETA deems out of their own boundaries. They go as far to refer to these forms of harassment as "missions" and award the young missionaries points that can be redeemed for t-shirts, buttons and other free propagandistic garbage. Even the pursuit of knowledge is no exception to the long lanky arms of PETA's impartial onslaught. Their latest "victory" consisted of bullying NASA to the point of ceasing experiments involving the effects of radiation on squirrel monkeys. Oh thank God that all those dewy-eyed, adorable little scamps were spared from those mean old scientists! Let's all be grateful for PETA's efforts, we can now rest assured, knowing that our American heroes will die of radiation exposure out there in the cosmos, because apparently, they are not allowed the knowledge to know any better. Thank you PETA. Thank you so, so much.

Maria Brink always makes my animal want to perform.

Being a metalhead, my connection towards the animal kingdom is much more tightly wound than that of the averaged civilized person. I am driven by instinct and primal rage. Like my chimpanzee cousins in the wild, my diet is comprised of both plants and animals. Also like my chimpanzee cousins, I would partake in cannibalism if it was an acceptable social mean. If you handed me a people kabob, freshly grilled and asked me to try it, I would be god damned if I didn't enjoy myself a swift, juicy bite upon your request. 

McDonald's and Burger King are one of the few places open when the venue staff tells me that I have to go home, and I'm too drunk to care about what I eat or what drive-thru my car happens to skid into. I couldn't give less of a flying fuckilyduck how they scald their chickens alive in boiling oil before or after ruthlessly murdering them via swift throat slash. Four chicken nuggets are a dollar, and they're tasty as hell. Better yet, if your chicken nuggets or cheeseburgers are not substantially more delicious when you eat them while watching this video, (the same one Oli Sykes claims transformed him into a pompous vegan jackass,) you are a poor excuse for a death metal fan. Animal cruelty, like human cruelty, is really awesome, and incredibly metal. If you don't believe me, while watching the video, mute the bleeding heart narrator, and blast your favorite Exhumed tune. You should be inspired to write some sick as hell lyrics immediately. Unless of course you're like me, and you're just too hungry to concentrate.

Heavy metal redemption can not merely be found in throwing your vegan lifestyle away and hitting the barbecue. That is not good enough. If you have mutilated your omnivore digestion system by converting it to a herbivore lifestyle for a long enough period of time, your only means of redeeming yourself can be found out in the wild. You are to murder a fairly-sized mammal in the most inhumane way you can, look it in its dead eyes, and eat it. If the process is truly upsetting to you, bring an ipod or battery powered boombox with some Gorerotted at the ready to lift your spirits about the ordeal.

On a lighter note, throwing away your vegan ideals is a great resolution for the new year. But all in all, I guess vegetarianism isn't all bad. After all, take a gander at some of the gag-induc... I mean scrumptious-looking recipes available on peta2's webpage! Delicious.