Many are familiar with the rejuvenating properties of a bottle of Vitamin Water following an evening spent waging a campaign of genocide on one’s own braincells. Yet while replenishing depleted stores of ephemeral get-up-and-go, Vitamin Water lacks that certain something, that special ingredient that truly puts the spring back in the step of an otherwise lackluster, shuffling crawl. That ingredient? Why, meat of course!

It’s already been proven that household objects are made better with a hot meat infusion, it’s only logical that water too would benefit from an addition of nature’s delicious murder-candy. Now the choice between sating the rumbling nausea of a vicious hangover or enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous five foot trips to the kitchen (and the ensuing near-sysiphean 2 minute wait for that damn burrito to cook all the way through) is made all the more easy. Simply lie back and sup from the bountiful teat of water that satisfies all the needs of the terminally self-dehydrated. They even make Eliza’s favorite flavor!

MeatWater [Human Under Construction]

After a dozen years of tyrannical Prohibition, the people of our once proud and great nation had finally cracked. I know it sounds far fetched but bear with me, the mental decimation of North America at the hands of 12 years of sobriety at gunpoint and poisonous, bathtub concocted tonics explains everything.

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The internet is a wondrous thing. With it we can have the most basic goods and services delivered to our doorstep, communicate with friends long scattered to the wind, entertain ourselves for hours at the expense of our fellow man, and most importantly indulge our most deviant, disgusting fantasies.

You see, I have long thought that I was alone in my desire for a companion upon whom I could lavish a bouqet of adorable ape-centric pet names. As I laid awake at night, dreaming of women with long braids of silken arm-hair from which I might lazily swing, I was filled with a deep shame, compounded by the seemingly singular nature of my peccadilloes. Thankfully, the festering primordial stew that is our collective electronic Id proves its worth once more, serving up a cornucopia of my beastly heart’s desire.

No longer am I filled with shame, disgust yes, fear possibly, but not shame. The sun shines and the birds sing as arm in arm my deviant brethren march into a future bereft of lonely shame, upper lips stiffened at the knowledge that we are not alone.

Girls with hairy arms [HugoStrikesBack]

Saturday morning fast approaches, and while cartoons may be the order of the day, a Saturday just isn’t a Saturday without a sloshing bellyfull of cereal so sugared the inevitable crash feels like heroin withdrawal. With which sinister cereal will you sate your savage sweet tooth come Saturday morning?

Lugubri-Ohs [idigcerealkillers : Thanks, Sil!]

A crowning achievement in anti-drug hysteria, jenkem has now been cited by various news outlets and law enforcement agencies as the new teen drug of choice. Jenkem, for those not “in the know”, is made by placing raw sewage into a still made from a plastic bottle capped with a balloon. The mixture is then left to ferment in the sun and the user then huffs the gas produced and captured in the balloon. The high is supposed to be of the hallucinogenic variety and many times more powerful then cannabis.
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I’ve spent the past week in the frozen wastes of Toronto, Ontario. My expectations of barely literate, maple syrup sucking, troll people were beautifully shattered my first night here. My host having dragged me to a club at which the first sight to grace my eyes was a creature that stirs the loins of only the most deviant at Ectomo H.Q., the mustachio’d woman.

No no, not the overbearing Russian mother of 13, whose moustache is wispy and borne of horrible genetics. The supine, ink-stained upper lip of a woman in male drag is the madonna of my filthy lust. There are few things in this world more attractive than a woman embracing, owning, and subjugating (in a fashion akin to praying mantis) a masculine icon, and in so doing infusing it with feminine allure.

Janis Joplin breaks my heart.

I was introduced to her legacy at an impressionable age by my hippie parents, and listened to a treasury of her CDs all through middle school. Her vulnerability, her delivery, and her innocence fascinated me, and represented a Platonic ideal of the 1960’s, a time I often thought I would have enjoyed.

As my parents’ generation ages into elderhood, the 60’s pass into American mythology, and the thoughts and deeds of their heroes will become ever more obscure and misunderstood. They say cultural climate is a pendulum, and that someday we will swing back to liberalism, tolerance and democracy.

These days, I find it very hard to believe.

I find Janis’ modern parallel in a similarly haunted and drunken muse, Amy Winehouse.

Janis Joplin Can (and Does) Go Home Again [Need Coffee : Thanks to Widgett Walls’ ectotweet]

The pattern of world politics, etched upon the solid gold cock ring of Karl Rove’s gay, piercing fetishist father, Louie?

I didn’t know his son — all I knew about his family was what Louie recounted to me as I looked at their pictures in the living room. Other than that I was mostly bothered by their visits to Palm Springs or his to Santa Fe, since that meant the house was closed for other over-night friends. And as to his former wife, Louie told me he had come out and so they divorced. But when I saw his family photographs I just saw the usual groupings of people and smiling-faced portraitures.

As a way to introduce me to piercing, he showed me a collection of the “world’s first body piercing magazine” — PFIQ (Piercing Fans International Quarterly). Those early magazines depicted a world many thought of “only as a handful of widely dispersed and closeted hardcore fetishists.” I was fascinated.

And pictured in that magazine was Louie … well, not Louie’s face but it was definitely Louie’s piercings [Editor’s note: in fact, Louie was one of their best known cover models!]. Louie had more genital piercings — all gold — than God … and there they were, all pictured in that magazine.

Perhaps not: it’s all anecdotal and unsupported, and the timing is suspect. Of course, I’m not sure I want to see the clinical DNA report that proves conclusively that the big toe thick ring laying in the palm of this guy’s hand, strangely stained with crusty verdigris, was actually used to thickly squeeze the erection of Rove. Sr.

A Little Bit Of History [BMEzine, NSFW]

Truly, this is one nightmare that Brownlee and I share: a pixie-headed girleen, gracile of limb and sleek of shape, decides to undergo a series of twenty surgeries that turn her into a putty-colored, basketball-breasted, fish-lipped hag.

The infinite tragedy of such a decision, undoubtedly backed with heaping doses of body dysmorphia, depression, and just plain bad taste, is that her career didn’t take off until she did it.

Anyone who finds this actually attractive, this Thing that she has twisted herself into, should be weeping with shame…

La metamorfosis de Sabrina Sabrok [Blogspot]

When Cthulhu wakens from his R’lyehian slumber, the air will be fouled by his toxic breath, a fishy miasma of filth and decay that will pollute the lungs of his followers with his very essence. That day can’t come soon enough, but until then, we recommend chain smoking a few packs a day to get your lungs acclimatized to the Eldritch post-apocalypse to come.

But how to set yourself apart from the other nicotine junkies? How do you show the world that you smoke not out of dire addiction or a desire to look cool (and let’s face facts: there’s no one who doesn’t look cooler with a cigarette insolently drooping off their lower lip) but for Great Cthulhu himself.

Reader Haux has you covered. He’s sent along this excellent PDF to create your own Dunwich Horros brand cigarette box. Just print it out, glue it to cardboard and construct your own pack of nails. Why be a Marlboro Man when you can be a Cthulhu Minion?

Dunwich Horror Cigarette Box [PDF]

Because the mass in Emily’s stomach appeared too large to be removed laparoscopically, a gastrotomy was performed instead through a 7-cm median xiphoumbilical incision. The mass was found to be a trichobezoar, or hairball, 45 cm long and 8 cm in diameter (Figure 2). The hair mass was cast in the shape of the stomach, which it filled, and extended down through the distal end of the duodenum, past the ligament of Treitz.

Rapunzel Syndrome [Psychiatry Online]

Yesterday’s Noise du Jour was “Sonne” by German industrial band, Rammstein. The video is a masterpiece of parody and fetishism, casting Snow White as an abusive but beautiful giantess who presides over the mine-filthy dwarves (played by the band), exploiting them for their gold.

I’m really taken by this video and have played it over and over. The first pass through is great entertainment, with men toiling in darkness and then the giant abusive Snow White. Something about this version of the tale strikes me as “more true” than the conventional telling. And without the line of little men waiting fearfully for their spankings, I don’t think it would have been as brilliant.

Watching a few more times, I starting looking more into Snow White’s drug use. It does explain her abusive behavior, but in the end the director leans hard on the apple. Is it a play on Eve & the Tree of Knowledge? That didn’t seem to fit.

I looked up the lyrics, and that really sent the message home.
(excerpted)

Here comes the sun
It’s the lightest star of all

The sun is shining out of my eyes
It will not set tonight

It can burn, it can blind you
When it breaks out of the fists
it lays down hotly on your face
It lays down painfully on your chest
Balance is lost
It lets you go hard to the floor
and the world counts loudly to ten

So nothing about Snow White, fairy tales or abusive women. The lyrics use sun (repeatedly “Hier kommt die Sonne”) as a metaphor for a drug high. In the video, Snow White as Sonne then is not the drug user, she is the ADDICTION.

So when the apple falls in the end, it is the same as from the fairly tale. But instead of putting an innocent child to sleep, this POISON APPLE reawakens the ADDICTION.

And in the denouement the men are back underground, toiling to satisfy her endless demands. Brilliant work.