Radiation

I know it’s not exactly the Cold War bullshit era anymore, but one does think sometime about what delightful effects a nuclear radiation could inflict upon living things. I remember watching that stupid remake of the Japanese giant lizard movie once, when there’s a scene of gigantic earthworms coming out from the soil around Chernobyl…not to mention the story behind the lizard itself. 

Whateva. Why does one need to care so much about life anyway?

Maybe, Agruss (as the bullshit official bio suggest, so I’ve been told) is a genuine sample of how such radiation affect one’s musicality…or maybe it’s just B.S.

The sounds of plutonium-infested brain cells, maybe?

Gettin’ creative

How creative can you get with the exquisite art of taking another’s life? Can never get one’s mind around it for sure.

Should a wet, rainy alley be treated differently than a dry, damp parking lot? Does the thickness and branding of one’s cutlery matter? Should certain styles of musical choice, attire or lighting be made?

Why do laymen think it’s all about being macabre anyway?

No Addiction Here

I think I have finally proven to all the critics that I am not addicted to anything they so peevishly accuse me of throughout the years. 

It’s been weeks now that I have gone 8 – 9 hours a day without chain smoking. It has also been weeks now that I don’t constantly crave for alcohol every hour or so.

Hell, I’ve even left this stupid blog unattended for at least two weeks without losing temper on every stupid traffic mongers in town.

Fuck. I think I can even overcome that last tingling addiction… 

Think I may even brave a year-long drought 

Seen It All

Just when you thought you’ve seen it all, something shitty hits the fucking fan and splatters it ugly slime everywhere, twice-thrice as worse as you expected.

Shit happens? Yeah, sure does. And sometimes it comes in triplets…like when you tried to stab an asshole who backstabbed you and it turns out that the asshole has another vengeful dick eyeing a payback, and that dick gets to the asshole first. Leaving you out of breath from the chase and yet not a speck of the ugly asshole’s blood on your dagger.

Fucking useless asshole. Fucking useless dick.

I want my payback, you fucking dick!

Mugged

When it’s on the newspaper, on TV, on someone else’s story, then mugging is just unreal. Distant. Like a fairy fucking urban tale. It’s a whole different ball game when it actually stares you down the eyes.

What really sucks is when the fucking burglar actually out run you, and your well-polished kitchen knife…with your laptop, mobile phone, wallet and all sorts of shits that just make anyone’s day that much more shitty.. 

We will meet again soon.

You, me, and my sweet knife, you chicken shit

Back to Basics (Reprise)

My newly found joy, of digging back to the good ole snail mail underground stuffs, has reached completely new heights...I’m now officially fucking high on these intense, Thrashy Death shit, almost like a moth to a flame.

Aggression, intensity, no holds-barred, fuck-it-all, good ole underground extreme metal.

Nothing beats the basics!

Back to Basics

Sometimes it’s just better to get back to basics. Surely, there are moments when listening to breathtakingly intricate or brilliantly odd music is quite a treat, and yet that is far and few in between.

Most of the time, after the numbing drudgery of a 9 to 5 life, the main moments of treat is found when the music is simple and hits right to the bare necessity: raw power, raw blast beats and an excess of excellently infectious riffs.

Thank shit some still care to preserve the basics of the good ole 80s and 90s...

Hack It Back to Basics

Axe Bitch Cunt

While some tribal ritual of coming to adolescent age involves the infliction of pain to the initiate’s body, in a strange country called Troller the ritual apparently involves something a whole lot more vicious.

Named after the way it is traditionally staged, the Axe Bitch Cunt ritual test the agility of young tribal men, who will try to copulate with Axe Bitch, and do his best to escape the axe once orgasm or ejaculation is achieved, as the Bitch will try to swing her axe and turn the initiate into a dick-less slave... 

Swing Da Axe, Bitch!

There’s A Reason For All This Shit

It does seem as if zealots always have an argument as to why all of the shit in life happens.

Why do natural disasters, killing thousands upon thousands of people, happen? Well, it’s because we are sinful and deserve to be reprimanded! 

Why do famine and war continue to plague the world? Well, it’s because we are sinful and deserve to be reprimanded!

Why are we always sinful and deserve to be reprimanded? Well, it’s because that is what has been written in the holy sacrosanct scriptures!

So, why is it written like such? Well, it’s because The Almighty works in mysterious ways, and you will be punished for questioning too much!

Fucking Zealots’ Ritual

Down n Dirty

It’s the fucking weekends. Hot, feverish nights. School dicks out on holiday. Drunk and disorderly. Intoxicated babes in silly short tights. Everything screams “homicide, please!”.

Yup. It’s time to get down n dirty again.

I love the fucking weekends...

Miss it Like Water

Some short, little things you just end up missing like water in a desert dust storm. Can’t believe my luck in finding these shits now...

Thank shit for the internet, and the great uploading son of bitches. Be burning some weed on a dead bitch’s eye socket in your honor soon, motherfuckers.

Miss It

Like Goddamn

Fucking Water

Satanic Air Radio

Since “air guitar” and ‘air bass”, and -heck- “air drum” are not so far-fetched nowadays, I thought it’s only proper to add another “air’ category into the vocabulary of the ever-gullible and tastefully demoralized 21st Century..

A new word that would have not been possible to conceive of if not for the superb banality of Joseph E. Aufricht aka Joe Aufricht aka Xaphan, high fucking priest of the Order of Dionysus Sabazios..

Be forewarned, this might not sit well with those faint of heart, stomach and brain.

Satanic Aufricht-ian Air Fucking Radio

What a Day...

Whenever a reasonably big burden that has kept one’s head buzzing with bloodlust is lifted, the thirst for some untamed prowling through the night just tend to get too much to bear.

It’s like an itch nothing can scratch, except for the warm and orgasmic sensation of the prowl and the stalking and the little prey’s gasp of unsuspecting excitement.

They all like the surprise, don’t they?

Still, it can all become mediocre, when one doesn’t have the adequate aural companion for the nightly exercise.

That would be such a shame

Zombie Paranoia

What a fucking delightful media hysteria this shit about zombie disease around the “West + Japan” has been. A few separate incidents of what amounts to cannibalism, and all of a sudden you got zombie paranoia going around.

Hysteria caused by disinformation or is it by plain simple dumb ass gullibility? 

Who the fuck cares, when all sort of violent shit could be stirred up by such urban Americanized clusterfuck...

Bring on the shitstorm!

Eyes of a Goddess

Why is it that the word “goddess” always gets related to curvy body, full lips, pronounced ass and all that shit but never about the eyes?

Think I have seen me some intriguing characters with goddess-like eyes. Those deep, mysterious and unfathomed stare that just ooze its way through your psyche like cold dagger.

It’s the kind of eyes that you’d want to keep, even if it means going against the owners’ will.

Steal those fuckin eyes (courtesy of stonerobixxx)

Never Too Old

Nope. You’re never too old to change your view of this pathetic life, or to change your taste of booze, preferred killing ground, choice of suicide method etc.

So why not change one’s perception of what particular color should be used on a particularly heavy, legendary, ground breaking Rock/Metal album? 

Just as well, perhaps one should also change the preference regarding what particular entity/entities a band’s name should refer to, when it is/was playing a particularly heavy, legendary, ground breaking Rock/Metal music? 

In that spirit, one should then perhaps be able to revaluate the merit of naming a band after a Roman citizen who was supposedly boiled in a pot and beheaded for his beliefs, and has since been revered as a patron saint of epileptics and depicted as a man who loves carrying poultry, on top of a green corny book.

It might also be a good time for one to start revaluating the merit of how a band named after a Roman citizen who was supposedly boiled in a pot and beheaded for his beliefs, and who has since been revered as a patron saint of epileptics and depicted as a man who loves carrying poultry, on top of a green corny book, released its legendary second full length with a cover artwork that is predominantly daubed in pink.  

Pink Cock Patron

Draggers

Just when things are starting to look up for you, be assured, there’ll be assholes of all kinds to drag you back to the shithole.

The best remedy for such draggers is to obliterate them, of course (no, just saying fuck off won’t work with these draggers). Nevertheless, it’s not that easy obliterating people nowadays. So, one might try an alternative: start a riot nearby the homes of those pain-in-the-ass ticks, and jump them in the commotion...

Nothing beats the shit fun of a rowdy, chaotic riot, and a bleeding dragger writhing in the asphalt. 

Kaos Asphalt Magick

Ego-trip Mirrors

Some people are so high on ego-trips they just can’t stop, until they’re in pieces. Like mirrors, waiting to be broken, these scumbags are not going to understand that the universe does not revolve around individual wants, until the universe smite them to smithereens..

Fuck, I do love seeing them fall and break apart. Nothing is sweeter than that looked of disenchantment, shock and pain.

Let them fall

Supermoon

When a big ass moon start rising from beyond the hills, and your head feels like a million squirming pulsating critters, hungry for blood, it’s a sure sign that weirdness shall come cascading from every corner of the night....

First taste of weirdness....

Is always the weirdest....

Until you get used to it....

Perfect Soundtrack

What would be the perfect soundtrack for a hate-filled, frustrating and nut-busting day? Back in the days, I would’ve settled for some Mayhem and Darkthrone stuffs, but that just not enough anymore.

Life, as it is, is just that much more stinky than it has always been, one simply need something a whole lot more rotten and rancid to soldier on...

Thank shit, some French degenerates have the sensibility to produce crushingly heavy, hate-inducing music (never mind the excessive images of nudity).

A must have for any clusterfuck days....like when you fail to finish off a bastard with your favorite axe down in the park last night... 

I’ll get you next time you fuck...

Fueling Hell

The absence of alcohol can really turn one’s thoughts into the most intriguing sophistry. Take the myth of the eternally burning pits of hell, for instance.

The first question to be pondered is surely how the fuck does it gets eternal like that? Is someone or something fueling the flames in that realm, or is there actually a blazing contraption there that continues to recycle the heat and the flames?

One story said it is fuelled by us, by our sins and transgressions, by every twat and dick fornicating beyond the sanctity of marriage, or slaughtering each other regardless of remorse.

Damn, those things do get my nerves all hot.

Maybe what my good ole favorite Czech musicians’ said is true after all, that we are the ones lighting and burning the flames over there.

Torch that realm here

Subtleties

I suppose this happens to anyone who has been listening to extreme underground music for quite a while: the sensitivity for subtle aspects within a musical work. It doesn’t matter how noisy or hard and heavy the music gets,  there are always other, subtle things that makes one feel comfortable with a certain musical work, or not.

It’s not how brutal, fast, technical or pompous one plays the music. It’s those other, seemingly trivial things that matters. 

It’s that feeling of real pain and hatred, oozing through each notes and vocalization. It’s also that foreboding atmosphere, like shadowy figures fleeting through the corner of an eye.

Those are the shits that matters, rather than a whole lot of pompous, superficial big mouthing, attires or images. Because you just can’t copy old wounds.

Sticky old wounds

Peace of Mind

How does one achieve a peace of mind? Maybe not through bar brawls, one night stands, speeding through a graveyard or any other adrenalin rush thingy.

Drowning in a bottle of bourbon might not be a good idea either. Can’t see a bottle of prescription medication helping out any better...

Someone told me a long while back that such a peace is an illusion. The main reason for that being the mind’s own tendency to be fragmented...Always switching from one thing to another, like a hamster on meth.

Peace of mind? Fuck that..it’ll always be pieces of a hyperactive fragmented mind. 

Mind in Fragments

Roller Coaster

It’s one thing to talk about death and to watch it creep up personally. The way a soul twist and turn in a roller coaster between here and there, is one of the most exquisite experience anyone could ever have.

Moribund, is not as unpleasant or as peaceful as one could have imagined. Particularly in the case of a sick and dying old soul...

Roller Coasting Out To Die

Nightmare Coaster

Watching troubled minds at sleep is always an intriguing pleasure. The way they twitch and turn and moan and scream, in reaction to the deepest recesses of their subconscious, makes one wonder what wonderful nightmare they might be roller coasting through.

It also makes one wonder, whether everyone share and recycle the same nightmare scenarios, like some generic typology or something?

Even more importantly, does everyone meet the same bloodied and white-dressed dame in the bathroom and dark corners? Does everybody then also proceeded into that sinister and fun coaster of chasing the bloody dame and running her to the ground with a steel hammer?

Chase that bloody dame

Graveyard Shift

I’ve always heard weird stories about graveyard shift. Tales of weird sounds and creepy whispers in the dark alleys of deserted buildings, or even of uncanny encounters among the shadowy walls.

Either they are all tall tales, or the folds of darkness and night do posses more than meets the eye.

Just like some genuine 1970s progressive-rock acts, the night time can really keep quite a handful of surprises in its sleeve.

Night Watch Psychedelic Shift

Disco Crap

I love meeting the ‘dance-y’ people on weekend nights. Rave, House or whatever else they’re high on, it’s always nice to see them smiley faces bleed.

It’s almost as nice as ripping off their money, booze and fancy smart phones, just before shoving their miserable existence into limbo.

Disco Death Volume 1