My heart is broken.

Lemmy Kilmister is dead… at least to me.

Let me explain: Yesterday I went to the airport to pick up my girlfriend who just came back from a vacation in Sweden (bitch). As soon as she gets in the car she says “I’ve got a present for you!” and pulls out a bottle of Motörhead Shiraz. At first I laughed, because I though she printed it up herself or maybe it was some weird bootleg novelty. But after some googling, I confirmed it’s the official goods.

WTF?!

Listen. I’m no fucking communist. I fully believe in everyone’s individuals to cash-out on their talent, ability, looks, smarts and/or genitalia. Not to mention, I fully appreciate the precious blood of the grape, I buy a box of Franzia every week. But couldn’t he have come out with a whiskey or something? Maybe a nice Bourbon? Wine just seems so… Un-Lemmy.

The marketing doesn’t help. “The wine has a very fruity aroma with flavours of vanilla, blackberries, plums, eucalyptus and liquorice. It is full-bodied with soft rounded tannins.” Jesus Christ, Lemmy!. All my backstage-after-concert-hotel-room masturbatory fantasies are now ruined with the image if Lemmy Kilmister in a smoking Jacket gingerly holding a long stemmed wine glass asking if I’d like piece of Gouda off of his fucking cheese plate. Not that that sounds so bad…. In fact, come to think of it, that actually sounds kind of hot.

Never-mind Lemmy, I forgive you sweetheart. The wine was delicious by the way.

Motörhead Wine

Felicia Jackson
Swellco & Swellco 22397b

P.S: Apparently he’s redeeming himself by doing Motörhead Vodka now.

Photos courtesy of http://toxicvisionclothing.tumblr.com/

I crank the music up while I get ready for a night out dancing.  I will listen to anything – it’s just gotta be loud, throbbing & pulsating.  I’ve gotta be able to wiggle my ass & loose myself as if in a sex seizure.  I turn up all the lights so I can admire my dance skills as I do a reverse strip tease, sliding into stretch denim & stilettos.

My ‘get ready’ music gets me ready to binge on the glory of being the queen of the dance hall.  It sets the tone for the mindful indulgence of booze & unskilled but willing party boys.

When crazy awesome Patrick invited me to a dance party at his place, I made sure to get especially hot & ready.  Pussy Riot got me ultra pumped to get up on that living room table & shake the shit out of his Section 8 housing.

Uncle Awkward’s play list consisted of No Bra on repeat.  The first time I was like, “huh?”  The second through eighth time I was playing beer pong with vodka so I didn’t care.  But after two hours, I was ensconced in the chanting.  All the ladies started taking off their clothes; it was a subliminal sex song & I was its slave.

Doherfuckher, Doherfuckher, Doherfuckher …  So I did.  On repeat.

Tomata Fortunata  (#D69004)

To host your own orgy.

Doherfuckher

Doherfuckher.

Doherfuckher.

Pics:

www.brooklynvegan.com, fuckyeahgoths.tumblr.com, fuckyeahbraless.tumblr.com

I am rendered speechless, and that makes me uncomfortable.

I’m speechless.  Speechless & a little uncomfortable.  I’m uncomfortable because I’m not sure I’ve ever been speechless before and that weirds me out a little. . .   Perhaps I should start at the beginning.  OK, so yesterday Uncle Wheat Toast informed me that I would be reviewing the work of Zoë Williams.  I said, “Wow- thanks for the notice.  What am I, the Swellco resident art critic now?”  Yes, I was snarky & yes I was sarcastic.  But seriously- my former catchphrase was “Less Artsy, More Fartsy.”  I mean, why can’t I just educate everyone on the amazing phenomenon that is the German Sparkle Party?  (More to follow, I promise- you simply must know about this.) However, I reeled it in & thanked him for recognizing my brilliance and grace under pressure and proceeded on.

Then I checked out her portfolio.  I was disgusted beyond belief.  I had that feeling you get when you discover anal seepage after the onset of a hemorrhoid flare up.  However, I couldn’t stop staring- and even though I know you can’t love everything, I also decided to delve in a little deeper- just to be sure.  I stopped being grossed out.  I started being amazed.  This woman goes so far beyond the arts & craft, I work with felt, smug ass, I’m an etsy artist crowd.  So now, I’m looking at that crazy big “Gold Rhino” and I kind of want it.  I am rendered speechless, and that makes me uncomfortable.  I kind of like it.

C U Next Tuesday,

Xoxo,

Helen Harper

To buy Helen the Gold Rhino

RHINO ATTACK!

Yeah Pictures!
bschwartz.tumblr.com, awkwardboners.tumblr.com

Hang them heads high!

I don’t give one good goddamn about art.  What does a house need decoration for?  Be happy you have four walls & a ceiling. House wares should be useful & the only thing hanging should be a gun rack & the heads of anything them guns killed.

Don’t ask me how to say her name, but I sure as shit like Bijijoo’s art.  She does paintings of presidents holding hams.  Fuckin’ A Right & God bless the U.S. of A.; a ham hock is about as useful as it comes.

She also has paintings of severed heads of Hollywood big shots in ridiculous places.  Those sons of bitches make too much money & take themselves too serious.  ‘Bout time someone cut their dang heads off.

This Bijijoo character also practices necromancy with the facial expressions of Justin Timberlake.  At least that pansy’s mug is useful for something besides smiling & acting girly.

So long as I live, there will never be anything hanging on the walls of my cabin that isn’t dead or useful, so when rats fart out dollars, I’ll buy one of Bijijou’s pictures ‘cause they will do just fine.

-Old Tarpie (#M44098)

To get your fortune told by JT!

Do not watch this video unless you want your girly city boy groin to crawl so far up your belly you digest your own dick.

Thanks for the pics:   bijijoo.tumblr.com, fuckyeahtaxidermy.tumblr.com

So the other day, after a long night of science-related experiments involving Jagermeister at a South Street testing facility that shall remain nameless, I was walkingt towards Lorenzo’s in order to get an over-sized piece of cardboard covered in cheese that they call pizza. While I was stumbling down the block, a small group of crusty gutter punks and their dog asked me for some change so ‘They could get Drunk’. Now having spent all the semi-hard earned money I had – in the name of science – except for $3 which was specifically allotted for Lorenzo’s so-called Pizza, I felt slightly indignant about that request. And so I politely replied “Fuck you scumbags, get a job and take a shower”. To my unpleasant surprise, they all jumped up from the cold concrete where they were sitting and started to beat my wirey 5′ft 8, 162lb ass.
Even the dog.

To be honest, I’m a lover not a fighter, and so I thought I was all but done for until the honking of a horn followed by the loud unintelligible gibberish of a hot Latina hood-rat/Havana Ginger look-a-like. She was wielding a small Louisville slugger, swinging wildly while screaming something about Choolos or Churrittos – which caused my attackers to disperse.

She said ‘You Okay, Papi?”, helping me regain my composure.
“Yeah. I’m good. What did you say to those guys?” I replied.

And while I’d like to say she simply put her finger over my mouth as if to say hush, leading me back to her orange Toyota Corolla where we made sweet animal-like love to the tunes of Pitbull, all-night-long… What happened in reality was, “Oh Shit. You ain’t fuckin Carlos! What the Fuck!” and she stormed off.

You know I’ll never know exactly what my little Latina sexpot said to those filthy pricks that night… but I really loved the way she said it.

That’s exactly how I feel about Russion Riot Grrl punks, Pussy Riot, who were arrested the other week for publically taunting Vladimir Putin with a street performance of “Putin Pissed Himself” on top of a commandeered public transit bus. Way more punk than sitting around asking for change, you think? Check em out.

-Kevin Dalton
Swellco & Swellco 83473t

 We all have a right to speak to the manager about disinterest in bullshit. 

You little fellows and ladies know the feeling of want. I aint talkin’ about the need for proximity, y’know, “fuckneed”. Im not even talkin’ about hunger or “dropage”-alarm. Im speaking about the simple want for something to be reeeeeeaaaaallll good. There are many moments, many days of the want, that I sweat in desperate need for all in my cloud-vision to exceed my expectations. The problem with this inconvenient interest is the angling effect of wrongness. Im wrong to want. This is not easy to say, as I am not fallable like the pee-pods floating the shitty streams of every non vacant street in the rotten city. NO! Its not easy to know, being a salt-pillar of solidarity, that you are wrong. But here goes…prepare for the lunacy.

 During a rather fueled workout, the window opened showering me with a clothed case. Within i was a disc replete with gloriously visual casing. Black on black, and within, a colorful melange. It was like finding a strong-smelling fleshy vagina under clothing that promised nothing so tangy. The name displayed: Shabazz Palaces. Being the movie fan I am, I thought “what a wonderful title”,  this dvd seems rather interesting. But I was in no rush to examine it further. Im in no need of further entertainment. I have a mirror, the dirty floor, and a brain full of exuberance…What glory. Anyway, I waited for my nephews to return from their exploits, so that I may get to know this plastic frisbee better.

 After a few hours they were able to set up the Dvd player and television (more like a black piece of paper with a chord. Did these idiot pricks ever hear of tube t.v.?) and engage the entertainment. I did not know what to expect: was it Science fiction, horror, romance? I was ready for whatever product hollywood could bring, but there was something more. You see, I wanted to like it. I wanted this movie product to be good. I had a run of business success like a gold-slick rush through a pussy factory. I KNOW what kind of bullshit their makin’ everywhere these days. I didn’t change careers for no goddamn reason, assholes! I have a mind for quality, and If I was gonna take the time to watch this movie, it better damn-well make me feeeeeeel somethin. One of the kids put the disk in/ hit buttons/ took it out/ put it back in. The sonovabitch wouldn’t even play. One of the other kids tried a few other dv-disks, and no problems there. We even managed to watch all seven of the other movies. Still though, that disc someone dropped through the window wouldn’t play a goddamn second of whatever Snaaaazzy houses, or whatever movie it was called. Frankly, I was right from the get-go: “Sounds like a buncha bullshit”.

 Anyway, turns out the sound from the movie could be played on a compact disc player. One of my nephews friends said it was pretty good.

 Listen to the fuzzy air, kiddies.

Uncle Awkward (Swellco & Swellco 11249c)

All photos courtesy of http://spechalanalog.tumblr.com

Please don’t hurt me

No, seriously.

My entire childhood was spent watching Arnold Schwarzenegger and James Bond movie marathons. That mixed with my obsession with anything Muppet related probably explains why I’ve got a thing for sexually frustrated socks. But this isn’t about my sociopathic tendency to carry on entire conversations and relationships with footwear. This is about the scariest bitch I’ve ever seen. Grace Jones.

I don’t know whether I first saw this obviously unstable, androgynous being of pure death rage in Conan the Destroyer or A View To A Kill. But either way I remember my reaction being akin to “HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT???” I also may have run away and hid under a couch. I was 5; I was able to fit under a lot more things than I do now.

Present day: I’ve just watched Conan the Destroyer, that’s the sequel that was rated PG… in comparison to the first one (Conan the Barbarian), Destroyer was soft like baby thighs. There’s no blood, no sex, no kills on camera, and yet I still feel like it should have been rated NC-17 for the Grace Jones sheer terror factor.

Look at her.

She looks like that throughout the entire fucking movie. Plus she has a spear and kills anything that moves, while screaming the entire time. AND SHE’S ONE OF THE GODDAMN GOOD GUYS. If I ever saw something like that coming towards me, even for a hug, I’m not taking any chances, I’m shooting first and running because she’s inevitably going to get back up. And then eat your fucking soul.

Now, psychotic, screaming warrior chick is scary enough, but did she stop there? Fuck no. She then went on to be lead henchman to a cold, ruthless, completely fucked Christopher Walken’s Max Zorin… who tries to take over Silicon Valley with a blimp… the only excuse I have for that is: it was the eighties.

But I’m getting sidetracked…  In A View to a Kill she sports a Lazerline that looks like she took a battle-axe to the face and survived. I assume it happened when she tried to devour Arnold for sustenance after Conan was finished being filmed. She also picks up dudes and then uses them to beat up other dudes. Fucking. Terrifying.

She also dated Dolph fucking Lundgren for the better part of the 70s and 80s, married a French graphic designer, admittedly probably the least strange thing she’s done, then she made up for that momentary bit of normalcy by marrying a guy named Atila… yeah, as in, The Hun.

At this point all I can do is assume that she’s an extraterrestrial being. Her weird disco music and the fact that Andy Warhol lauded her as a personal muse do nothing to persuade me any differently. In fact they serve as prime examples to back up the theory that she was sent here to harvest the souls of humans in order to fuel her planet sized space ship of death. I mean, fucking LOOK at her.

However, she did recently play a transvestite circus performer named Christoph/Christine in a movie with Tim Curry…which actually raises her to a rather high standard in my book. Because I like transvestites, circus performers and Tim Curry. So, maybe I was completely wrong about Grace Jones….

fuck no, she still scares the living shit out of me.
-SnakeOilGhost
(Swellco & Swellco 55821b)

Helen’s mind is a pink cloud haze

Rewind….  I’m 6, maybe 7 years old.  I’m playing after school at my friend’s house.  We had just finished watering the tomato plants in her mom’s closet when her older sister started bragging about how great her new pencil & eraser set was. It was sooooooooo much better then the toys Millee had & of course we could absolutely NOT use it.  Ugh- bitch.   There was no way we could EVER let the big sister know we were jealous, but from the minute I saw those Little Twin Stars I coveted them.  The shiny pink & blue pencil set was just stunning.  When my friend showed me the Hello Kitty tablet she had picked out- the red daisy pattern somehow paled in comparison.   But still- they were soooo cool.

Fast forward 15 years.  I had entered my first K hole, bought my first pair of big pants, Kikwears I think, and had a formidable collection of sweater vests.  My roommate was working at the Hallmark store at the mall.  My drug addled brain wanted anything sparkly or shiny- as luck would have it- Hello Kitty was just making her resurgence.  The beautiful pink cloud island stood staring me in the face as soon as I walked into the front of that store- and it was all FREE (because I shoplifted it- because my friend worked there and I could.)  Anyway- that was just the beginning of round 2 of my fascination with this adorable cultish feline.  I had band aids, cosmetics, stationary, pens, purses & stuffed plushes…  and that was just the beginning.  To this day I travel with a hot pink translucent plastic cosmetic case adorned with the Kitty Logo.  And I have a toaster that burns a Hello Kitty into my bread every morning.  How fabulously fitting that I know fate will having me sleeping in this Hello Kitty cottage one day- although I have to be honest, I’m not too excited about the giant furry they have working the door….It’s just not my fetish.  I wonder if I could get Snoop Dogg as a replacement- fo shizzle my nizzle.

C U Next Tuesday,
Xoxo,
Helen Harper (Swellco & Swellco 44321)

Photos courtesy of http://www.kittyhell.com & http://hello-kitty.tumblr.com

This pornstar-prostitute-Ph.D is going to save the world.

If I could be anyone, besides Uncle Wheat Toast, it would be today’s birthday girl Annie Sprinkle.  I know I’m forcing the issue because today’s not even her birthday, but I’m blowing out her birthday candles & making a changing places wish; Annie Sprinkle is altruistic, intelligent, bat shit crazy, curvy & very into giving h.j.’s. I only hope that someday I can look back & be as proud of my life as Annie Sprinkle must be today.

Annie Sprinkle is married to a woman AND she is married to the moon.  Two wives! I don’t know anyone with two wives, let anyone who’s having a threesome with a celestial satellite.

Annie Sprinkle was a prostitute for over 20 years, fucked thousands of hippies, rockers, 80′s chicks & the entire pornography industry, & she doesn’t have AIDS!

Annie Sprinkle can have a screaming orgasm at any moment by just breathing properly & wearing lots of gold/laying in a flower garden/gyrating in a burning room.

Though she spent a majority of her life banging dudes for money, Annie Sprinkle put the dick down long enough to earn a (non-accredited) Ph.D in human sexuality & invent Sexecology, which allowed her to marry the moon.

Annie Sprinkle’s vagina & huge titties are going to save the planet because her throbbing orgasms are going to drip a big dollop of caulk-like, middle aged lady jizz on the ozone layer, her vagina is going to suck up all the oil spills & she will re-use it as lube & her giant tits are going to feed the sexually starved people of the world.

Go get ‘em, birthday girl!

-Puss Bainbridge (88321c)

To buy a pair of Annie Sprinkles used panties dipped in bronze: anniesprinkle.org (asm)

Ecosexuality is hot.

Annie Sprinkles’ Soft Cock Manifesto

Photos courtesy of http://anniesprinkle.org/

I am drawn to your fatherly constant disapproval.

I always meet my lovers in private, off site locations; I have a nest of apartments & boat slips in a myriad of ports.  Whenever I have to attend a grand opening or gala , I find it’s best to be accompanied by a professional escort, an Extra Man, fluent in Romance Languages & American Literature, opera etiquette & altruistic tidbits of ecological information.  A supple man to elevate the party’s intellectual level, who is eye candy enough blow a breeze up the dusty holes in the aristocratic family trees who make up my dinner set.  (& leave me free to take The Wine Steward in the cellar.)

Recently, The Hot Box, my escort service, sent me a new Extra Man, Louis.  We drank a case of Krug & made a seven-course meal of caviar.  Louis & I waltzed across a sandy beach & learned of each other’s fractured personalities through our bodies’ tightly clad movement; all writers know that it’s better to show, not tell.

Louis is a man from another era & my perfect archetypal lover; I am drawn to his fatherly constant disapproval. He is my Gatsby & my Brett Ashley: I know everything he would show me, and even more about what he wouldn’t.  I am his Daisy, both Miller & Buchanan, the voice of his subconscious that is a slave to his libido.

My Extra Man carried me to bed & I dreamed of how he might erect his white picket fence, wearing lacy black lingerie, for me.  I suppose I should keep it professional; maybe I will let him pay me for my company next time.

-Puss Bainbridge (88321C)

Pics of Paul Dano dressed as a woman

Photos courtesy of  http://prostitutesandjunkies.tumblr.com & http://fuckyeahpauldano.tumblr.com