12/20/02

Christmas With the Devil

HO HO FUCKING HO

Merry Christmas from Bill, Sarah, Rachel, and Death Falcon Zero.

Thanks to Doug for inspiring this issue's (#48, dear lord) title, although it's kind of disturbing how appropriate that title seems. Read on.

First off, I was gonna include some Christmas themed pictures with this issue (I figure the one with the Death Falcon in a Santa hat should be a classic) but after taking pictures of about every damn thing I could think of, I've still got like half a roll of film left. Who's idea was it to put 27 pictures in a camera?

They were going to be like e-Christmas cards, but I guess I'm not going to get them out this year, maybe next. Only Christmas card I got through the mail (hey, I'm not bitching, I didn't send you any) was from my ex-mother in law, got a birthday card from her a couple weeks ago as well, both had these really nice hand written notes in them, no, not "sorry my daughter's a skank", cos blood is thicker and I don't have a problem with that, but they were still nice notes, and I appreciated them, and I sent her a card back telling her so.

What's Bill drinking? Well, it's 11:15 (am) as I type this and I'm on my seventh beer. What's that you say- you're at work? HA HA HA. After I dropped the girls off at school this morning I went by the bank were I deposited/cashed a check for FREE MONEY, went by the store, got in a couple hours of serious writing, and now I'm into this. Here I sit, one hand holding a beer, the thumb of the other one firmly lodged up my butt- that means I must be typing this with- yep, you guessed it. The girls both have after school Christmas things going on, and transportation home, won't be in here before 8 or so tonight, and I've been a very good boy lately, so I'm gonna drink beer all afternoon and fuck off.

What's Bill listening to? "Christmas With The Devil," what the hell else? Download your own from http://wv.spinaltap.com/mp3.html

A bit of advice for you all- never let Bill mind your pork. Ha. Remember Jack and Mary's pig I took care of Thanksgiving week? He went to pig heaven Tuesday night. IT WASN'T MY FAULT.

Actually, it wasn't. Buttercup was old and arthritic and has been ready to go for a very long time now. Jack came down to the house Tuesday night, said he was gonna have to have the vet come out Wednesday and put Buttercup down, and would I help bury him.

B: Hell no, Jack but I'll help you eat him.
J: That's not really an option, Bill.
B: Well, I still don't want to help you bury him, but I guess I will.

Jack comes down Wednesday morning with the good news that Buttercup passed in his sleep the night before, so he didn't have to call out the vet to do him in, so me and Jack's son Jason set ourselves to the rather massive task of trying to bury this big damn pig- the fucker measured out at almost 5 feet from head to tail, and over 300 pounds- that ain't no fucking poodle.

First off, I (rather cleverly, I thought) jammed my shovel under a big root and snapped the handle off it.

B: Damn, sorry, Jack, guess I'll just go on back down to the house.
J: I got more shovels
B: Damn your ass.

We dug for 2 solid hours, (that's a LOT of digging), and that would be Jason and I, Jack, whose fucking pig it was in the first place, stood around puffing his pipe and talking out of his damn head-

B: I could do with less philosophizing, and more help
J: Think I'll go make some coffee

-finally got a hole we thought he'd fit in. We go to the garage to pick Buttercup up and the first thing he does is leak damn dead pig juice all over my hand. God bless it, yuck. And you think he stunk while he was alive . . . fucking hell. Afterward, I went ahead and just threw away the shirt I was wearing.

Anyway, the 3 of us lug BC's massive corpse up to the hole and toss him in, and Jack goes into his Sermon For A Pig. He starts out with the Tao of Pigdom, (no, I'm serious) and off into the great chain of being, and evolution, and veganism, and how they fit seven great tomatoes in that itty bitty can, I don't know, on and on he goes, twice I had to fake coughing fits so I wouldn't bust out howling, my sides hurt like hell the rest of the day from holding it in. Far be it from me to mock a person's grief, but I defy any damn one of you to listen to that madman's spiel and hold a straight face.

Then he wants me and Jason to say a few words. Swear. Jason's like, "I don't know what to say, dad, jeez . . . " so then he asks me to. Yeah, sure, Jack, what the fuck.

Bacon to bacon, ham to ham Glad you're in Hell before I am.

I know it's not Shakespeare, or even John Donne, but it was off the cuff.

J: That's not exactly how I would've put it
B: Yeah, no kidding, I heard how you put it.

So, anyway, Massa- I mean, Buttercup- is in the cold, cold ground. RIP.

What else's up?

Got this e-mail only yesterday from some dim bulb who's been reading the letter, taking me to task for being a "fag". It's so over the top I'd almost suspect one of you jokers sent it. What's his justification for my fagness? Well, I'll quote- "you're into those fag things like poetry and bodybuilding." Goddamn, busted.

Actually, dear sir, if you're referring to the rhyming type stuff these missives are often larded with, those are song lyrics, which I personally consider a different breed of writing, and I've only written a small percentage of what's been included here, most have been from reasonably well known songs. Although I do like poetry, so you got me there.

As for bodybuilding, I think I've been accused of that in these pages before, actually, I think I've been accused of fagness here before, shit, I can't remember. Anyway, I work out, but bodybuilding is not my thing (that IS for fags).

This gay thing reminds me, in one of the library books I just finished, about American Hardcore, it said that all the guys in Husker Du were gay. I knew Bob Mould was, but I didn't know the others were. I didn't know Clive Barker (horror author, did among other things the basis for the Hellraiser movies) was gay till I read something about it a few weeks ago, either. Also in that Hardcore book (even though she's not HC, which they concede) was a very flattering picture of Joan Jett in a red spandex tank top and black tights, I thought the very sexist thought, "If she had a set of whacking great tits she'd be hot beyond belief", but hell, she's gay too.

That HC stuff also reminds me that I wish I'd known in '98 what I know now. When I was in Detroit going through my MOB training for Kelley Assisted Living, there was this girl there from Orange County, CA, Angie, she wasn't the absolute Betty Page-ish knockout Kay from St. Louis was (and who invited me to her room not once, but twice, and I insanely said "no thanks" both times), but she was certainly, in Death Falcon parlance, "doable". The last night we were in town Kay had to be somewhere with her- I don't remember what they were called, next level up boss is what she was- so Angie and I went out for drinks and I was asking about all those classic hardcore Orange County bands and she was actually really up with the scene, which was surprising, cos it was very male/jock oriented, and as she got more lubricated she got sort of flirty, and at one point I asked her if she knew how to do the HB strut, and at that point I was IN, and she offered to show me, and I INSANELY SAID NO THANKS. Dear God, if I could've only known on that trip what I do now.

Probably beating "The Future etc." to death in these pages, but I was listening to it the other night, sort of blocking out rough mix ideas, Sarah comes in and wants to know what it is, "that's lovely, Daddy" she says. On the other hand, we live in a house divided opinion wise, cos the Death Falcon doesn't care for it at all-

(Not to offend you, big guy, I know you're sincere and all, but it's all just a little too sensitive for me, you know? Although I do like the one song where you tell Death you're gonna kick his ass for your kid dying, that's a sentiment I can get behind)

That's okay, and I'm not offended. Besides, I know you don't know anything about music

(Bullshit. Aren't I the Pavoratti of wrecking bodies?)

Uh, sure. I think you need to go away now.

Anyway, rough mixing is all I'm attempting at this point, me and the Infernex aren't the mortal enemies we once were, but we're far from friends. Put a couple scratch tracks down to practice mixing on a week or so ago, wasn't too successful. In fact, I somehow erased them (and for all of you saying, sounds like a success to me, bite me). Joe's supposed to come out sometime after Christmas, gonna have him walk me through the process. Then, watch the hell out.

Joe sent me some stuff last week about this guy in this chat thing he was in, got dumped by his girlfriend of four years around September, just wrecked him, you could see him going down in his correspondence, a lot of concerned people gave him some very good advice, (Joe, on the other hand, recommended he work up a deep black hatred ala yours truly, and referred him to this website). Anyway, the kid, age 23, killed himself 11/30. That sucks, and depressed the hell out of me, even though I never knew him.

Wish I could've had the opportunity to talk with him, because I do know how he feels, and I was damn dead set on a similar course of self destruction about this time last year. Of course, my deal was to be shot dead by the cops (but oh, the swath I would've cut through them first, they'd say my name and spit for the next 20 years), after a multi-state murderous bloody rampage, I had the shotgun, (for real, and trust me, me with a gun in my hands is any right thinking person's worst nightmare), I had the hit list, I had the map all highlighted, with, okay, I'll go from here, to here, to here . . .

But the bottom line is I didn't, because, goddammit, YOU CAN'T LET THE BASTARDS WIN. You just can't. You get up each day, and you get through it. I feel bad for this kid, I know what it's like to hurt so bad emotionally it rips you apart just to fucking draw breath, and I mean that quite literally, I still sometimes get this feeling in my chest like I've just been hit with an goddamn axe. But I have the dubious advantage of having been through having my heart ripped out once before, back in '86, and I know if you can just hang in, hard as that fucking is, it will get better. Won't ever go away, but it'll turn into something you can live with. Besides, I figure I'm hellbound as it is, and I'm in no fucking hurry. End of Bill's sermon (sorry, no pigs).

Also, my deal is that a good life is the best revenge, and I'm hard at work on that. I'm living for that day a couple years from now when I'm on the best seller lists, and starring in the film version of "Drains", and I'm International Grand Prix All Asian Heavyweight Champion, and Michael Douglas is crying to the tabloids, "WHY DO MY LAST TWO KIDS LOOK LIKE BILL BITNER?" while Kathryn Zeta-Jones is smiling like the cat that ate, well, me.

Oh fucking yeah.

Speaking of dreaming, don't know what the fuck has been warping your boy here's psyche the past week or so, but I've had a solid week of really horrendous, death and destruction dreams. Dreamed I was watching Attack of the Clones on TV, all of a sudden I'm in that arena scene, but instead of those made up monsters they let loose 3 Allosaurs, which proceed to tear me to bits-my dreams don't fade out when the bad shit starts, unfortunately. Dreamed I was camping, all of a sudden it's like 1700 (the year, not the time of day) and I'm surrounded by Indians- mean, we're gonna scalp your white ass Indians- I go running through the woods, jump in this river to try to get away- and it turns out to be quicksand. I'm trying to get out of the quicksand, and the red devils show up and start shooting me full of arrows. Hello, I'm already sinking in quicksand, ya pricks.

Another, dreamed I'd moved away cos the girls had gone to Baltimore, my new landlord tells me, "I'm leaving you this shotgun, just in case", I'm like, "Just in case WHAT?" he's like, "If you need it, you'll know"- the dream fast forwards, it's now night, and I'm firing the shotgun through the big wooden front door at some raging SOMETHING trying to get in, the noise stops, I think it's gone away- and I hear the back door being smashed off it's hinges. I start to turn and SOMETHING- I never do see what- is on me. I wake up (in the dream), it's daylight, and I can see there's blood all over the room, sprayed on the fucking walls, and I figure, shit, I must be hurt pretty bad, so I stagger outside looking for help, these people see me and run away screaming, I look down at myself and I'm ripped to absolute shreds, and I realize, damn Bill, you're not hurt, you're dead . . .

More? Dreamed just last night I moved into this new house (I must really be sweating this girls going to Baltimore thing in my little pin head) and there's someone living inside the walls, I can hear him moving around in there, sometimes hear him whispering, and in that dream knowledge thing, I know it's this Nosferatu looking Ripper type serial killer that's been murdering people for ages. I go, right, I'm outta here- and I can't get out, somehow he's got the doors and windows so they won't open. So that pisses me off, I go through the house yelling, "All right motherfucker, come on out, let's get this shit over with, I'll kick your UGLY FUCKING ASS" and he's like, "in my time, not yours" and I know he's waiting for me to go to sleep so he can GET ME, so I'm going around punching holes in the wall trying to find this thing I'd rather run away from, cos better to fight it face up that get murdered in my sleep. Yow.

That's a good damn year or so's worth, all in a week, and those aren't even the worst. I had two so fucking horrible I won't even put them down, they were both tremendously realistic and vivid, and both had the fucking dream within a dream thing I HATE so much, where you dream you wake up, which makes the consequent dream shit that much more frightening. They incorporated a lot of real life locations and persons and even conversations I've had recently, all mixed in with this shit about personal transfiguration, and the end of days, and my genuine damnation, and they were fucking SCARY, and make the ones I described above seem like Mother Goose tales. All joking aside, I must be a truly twisted (or damned) mother fucker if those dreams represent what's in my head. Jesus.

On a lighter note (a car crash would be lighter, at this point) saw a good movie on TCM last week, A Face In The Crowd from '57. It's Andy Griffith's first movie, and he must've been channeling Jerry Lee Lewis, he's more manic and cornpone than anything you've ever seen. Just hilarious, not always intentionally. There's also this one brief part, maybe 10 seconds at the most, where Andy's judging this baton twirling contest and these two majorette's do this bump and grind sorta deal that made me wish my TV had a rewind button. Holy shit. TCM shows this about every month, you should check it out (especially you, Joe). And I know I've said it before, but since AMC started running commercials during their movies, they can KISS MY ASS.

What else? Took my mom up last week (I know I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time with my parents for an allegedly grown man, but half of it is, if I don't do it, it won't get done, and half of it is every time I'm around them I can hear the clock ticking, so I want to spend the time now while I can) to Ohio to watch my sister's brat pack of four while she and her husband went to a Christmas party. It wasn't the nightmare it could've been because I sat her 2 boys down at the start- her girls are pretty well behaved for the most part- and told them any of that whiney, tantrum-y bullshit they pull on their mom was going to get their asses busted and sent to their room.

Jeremy, age 10: Mommy said you're not allowed to smack us.
B: How about I bust your ass right now, Mr. Smart Mouth, and when she gets home, you can tell her?
J: How about I just behave?
B: That's an even better idea.

And he did, and it was fine, they're not bad kids per se, just fucking indulged out the ass, we all watched movies for most of the evening. They had the new Scooby Doo movie, dear Jesus, what a complete an utter load of total HORSESHIT, EVERTHING that's fucking wrong with movies today was right there, I could shove a typewriter up a monkey's ass and it could shit a better script, JACK could write one that made as much sense, the whole damn thing just got me revved the hell UP, it infuriates me that a piece of RAT PUKE like that gets made for millions of bucks, when- at one point, Jeremy tapped me on the leg and said, "Uncle Bill, will you please quit cussing to yourself, you're scaring us." Anyway, I didn't like the movie, and don't recommend you see it, unless YOU'RE A FUCKING DROOLING IDIOT.

Sarah's going to Baltimore with her mom, but Staci can't get down that weekend after Christmas, now, so she's coming down on the 2nd for a couple days. Hope she does, I'd like to screw her little heinie off (my neck feels FINE).

What's Bill drinking? Well, actually, already been there, haven't we? Just wanted to RUB IT IN.

THE PAVAROTTI OF WRECKING BODIES?!

I'm outta here. See you next year (or in hell).

Oh, holy fuck, no I'm not. Jack just came pounding on the door with a big bottle of Cuervo 1800 tequila in a gift sack, and a thank you card for me being so nice for helping bury Buttercup, like the kind you give out when a person dies. God bless it. Well, I never said he wasn't nice, just crazy.

Bill