Support Group Opens For People Who Chronically Listen to the Same 15 Songs

Posted on by Arielle Andreano

BANGOR, Maine. — Local community organizers recently announced the formation of a support group for music lovers who cannot stop listening to the same hour-long playlist, excited sources confirmed.

“It’s been a really underserved community, which I know all too well, as I struggle with this affliction myself,” explained support group co-founder Angela Bernabeo. “We can’t help it. We were born this way. We genuinely want to listen to more music, but we hear the siren call from our go-to playlist of 15 genuine bangers that came out when we were teenagers. It’s like a drug. We may only know three songs from our favorite band, but boy do we know every single word, guitar riff, inhale, and ‘oh yeah.’ But we’d like to evolve.”

The group enlisted the help of local DJ Jeremy Russell to expand their music exposure.

“I didn’t even know this condition existed. It broke my heart when they told me their stories. I knew I had to help. I looked at some of their playlists so I could figure out where they’re at. And honestly, they do slap. I mean, ‘Dance Yrself Clean’ into ‘Heart of Glass?’ That’s inspired,” said Russell. “But I was on a mission and had to stay focused. So I came up with a lesson plan that would help not only expose them to new music, but give them the tools to find it on their own.”

Musicophile Psychologist Daliya Klein offered some more insight on the under-researched phenomenon.

“It’s a surprisingly aggressive condition, not dissimilar to when small children go through a phase where they refuse to watch anything other than ‘Frozen’ for six months,” said Klein somewhat gravely. “However, it’s not impossible to overcome. They can be taught to let go of their musical security blankets. You just don’t want to overwhelm them with choices. You wouldn’t hand them the entire Prince catalog, for example. That might kill them. You have to start slow and be sure to incorporate a lot of positive reinforcement. It seems like this group is in good hands, and I expect many of them will make full recoveries.”

As of press time, It’s been reported that many of the group members, for their assignment to create a new playlist, simply reused their hyperfixation playlist from high school.

So Are We Just Not Going To Address Everyone’s Obsession With Riverdance in the ‘90s?

Posted on by Ben Friedman

In the late 90’s, there was this feeling that after grunge and alt-rock killed the 80’s with extreme prejudice, our parents were left to wonder what they were allowed to like after their music was no longer deemed cool. And there like a candy bar placed under a box being held up by a stick was Riverdance, waiting to prey on their disposable income.

But I really think we should re-evaluate just what the actual fuck happened to make Riverdance the multi-million dollar powerhouse it became because it does not make any sense.

Michael Flatley, the so-called ‘Lord of the Dance’, seemingly came out of nowhere during the ‘94 Eurovision contest to capture the hearts and minds of 40-something boomers who’d clearly seen the ‘Pure Moods’ infomercial one too many times. Fast forward three years and every other commercial is selling the world on Irish step dancing being the biggest dancing sensation since Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.

Mind you this was at the height of alternative rock and (arguably) the best era of hip-hop. And yet people bought enough tickets to sell out shows to watch, rapt in awe mind you, people dance like they’re crushing a sudden cockroach infestation with occasional leaps. I feel like somebody was supposed to make sure Riverdance didn’t take up too big a chunk of the zeitgeist, but was distracted by the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Alas, Pitchfork wasn’t yet powerful enough to stop it.

It was always my assumption that Irish step dancing was just something you did to put on your college application when you weren’t cut out for real dancing. I get that this is a time-honored tradition in Ireland and in a bar setting three whiskeys deep it fucking rules, it’s just that Michael Flatley is from Chicago which made this whole thing seem like he was doing a bit as an excuse to dress like Sigfried and/or Roy.

Don’t tell me it didn’t happen. I saw it happen.

Honestly, the whole country just let Riverdance fever wash over it with absolutely no resistance. Flatley was just leading people into packed out venues like some kind of greased up and shirtless pied piper, and everyone involved in the production made out like bandits too. They were even selling a soundtrack of people stomping for fuck’s sake!

Riverdance lives on believe it or not, and we need to send tickets to some cultural anthropologists and figure out why before it’s too late and it comes back around like another wave of ska.

Lowe’s to Begin Selling 14-Foot Glenn Danzig

Posted on by Ryan Dondero

MOORESVILLE, N.C. — Lowe’s executives announced plans to introduce a 14-foot tall Glenn Danzig ahead of the upcoming Halloween season, confirmed multiple sources following a shareholder’s meeting.

“The runaway success of Home Depot’s 12-foot skeleton caught everyone off guard. We knew we had to respond and that, whatever it was, it needed to be two feet taller,” said Lowe’s CEO Marvin Ellison. “After months of analysis, focus groups, concept testing, and product design, we finally landed on 14-foot Glenn Danzig, and let me tell you, we are excited. What says Halloween more than the guy who wrote the lyrics to ‘Halloween’ and also ‘Halloween II’?”

Local punk, Cara Daniels, is beyond thrilled to purchase a giant Danzig of her own, despite living in an 800-square-foot studio apartment with a roommate who “fucking sucks.”

“I am so stoked for 14-foot Glenn Danzig,” said Daniels. “I never give a shit about the stuff they sell at Lowes, but this is definitely the one exception. Have you heard they’re selling accessories so you can customize your Glenn? You can buy a devilock for Misfits-era Glenn or longer hair for the Samhain/Danzig-era Glenn. Lowe’s is selling leather pants, fishnet tanks, skull belt buckles, and leather gloves too! When this drops, I’m blowing a whole paycheck.”

“And I swear to fucking God, if my roommate ruins this for me, I’m done,” added Daniels. “He’s such a poser—‘Where’s a 14-foot Glenn Danzig gonna fit in our tiny apartment?’ Shut up, dork!”

Alexis Willis, an economist at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, specializes in Halloween economics and is the author of “Big Bones, Bigger Profits: How Home Depot’s 12-Foot Skeleton Changed America.”

“Halloween is a multi-billion-dollar juggernaut and it’s only getting bigger,” said Willis. “So far, Home Depot has been able to dominate in the production and sale of giant seasonal decorations. The 12-foot skeleton was a game changer, and no one has been able to quite catch up. Despite the excitement of some, I doubt giant Glenn Danzig is going to be the type of seller Lowes will need to keep pace with their rival. This is especially true given that Home Depot just announced plans for a 16-foot Danny Marianino.”

At press time, the real Glenn Danzig is still listed as 5’3”.

Six Songs We Listened To This Week While Trying Not To Panic About Everything

Posted on by Corey Montgomery

Another week, another slew of new music that you can’t be bothered to listen to. What happened to you? You used to be cool. Well, maybe not cool, but at least acceptable. Your current plummet into societal irrelevancy could be traced back to your refusal to listen to anything that came out after 2005. We get it. It was a great year for music, but it’s time to move on. Here are six new tracks to help get you back on the right track.

Drug Church “Hey Listen”

The long wait is finally over. The only album that has ever mattered in the entire history of music is here. Drug Church’s ‘Prude’ is a masterclass in busting your door down and kicking your shit in. There isn’t a second of this record where the guitars sound like they aren’t actively trying to break out of your headphones and shatter your skull. To avoid cranial injuries, try buying the special edition vinyl from our store and listening on speakers at a safe distance.

Scarab “Tetanus” / “Untitled”

If you’ve been to the office lately, you’ve probably been wondering what all the spackle was about. Well, Scarab released two of the heaviest singles known to man which caused several of our interns to throw their laptops through our cheap and already damaged drywall. If the band decides to release any more music soon, our whole building might be condemned. Needless to say, we’ve decided to wait for an album announcement before repainting.

Coheed and Cambria “Blind Side Sonny”

In case you didn’t already hear about it at your last D&D session, Coheed and Cambria released a new single. ‘Blind Side Sonny’ apparently introduces a new character to the band’s long-running Amory Wars/Vaxis universe. At least that’s what we think our Managing Editor said before we zoned out. All we really know is that it’s the most urgent Coheed has sounded in years.

Cheekface “Flies”

Most of those in our writers’ room cannot do a kickflip and are not on TV. It’s no surprise then that Cheekface’s new single ‘Flies’ seems to be speaking directly to them. Our staffs’ inability to foster real friendships aside, the track is about as fun and catchy as you would expect from the LA trio. And if Greg Katz’s dry and comedic lyricism isn’t enough, listeners are also treated to some excellent baritone sax from Jeff Rosenstock.

34 Trolley “Relaxation”

When the legendary Jersey rockers Screaming Females announced their breakup late last year, many of their fans were worried they would never be able to listen to music again. Fortunately, the band’s drummer Jarrett Dougherty is moving forward with a new solo project. Featuring members of Catbite and Push Ups, 34 Trolley blends elements of 80’s post-punk and disco. If you’ve always wanted LCD Soundsystem to sound less annoying and more punk, this is for you.
Relaxation EP by 34 Trolley

Because we know you’re too despondent to do it yourself, we’ve compiled these and several other questionable tunes into a playlist for you. It’s literally the least we could do. Click here to like, follow, and trick your friends into thinking you’re a tastemaker in the world of punk, indie, hardcore and metal.

In Your Face! I Proved My Old Teachers Wrong by Applying Myself and Still Failing Miserably

Posted on by Carson Kile

Everybody loves a good underdog story, so I thought I’d share mine here. My whole childhood I had teachers tell me how awful of a student I was, how I was wasting my potential, how I would grow up to be nothing but a deadbeat and a loser. Well, I’ve made it my life’s goal to prove those naysayers wrong. I’m an adult now, and I would kill to see the look on their faces when they realize that I’m actually doing much worse than they initially predicted.

My English teacher Mr. Stone always said that I could achieve great things if I only applied myself. Mr Stone, I’ll have you know, I’ve been trying my ass off for years and still have nothing to show for it! Every project I’ve ever sunk my time into, any endeavor I’ve ever signed off on has either failed spectacularly or fizzled out before ever leaving the ground. Bet you feel pretty silly now, don’t you, Mr. Stone? Not to rub it in, but it turns out my failures have nothing to do with a lack of motivation, but a complete absence of talent. Ha! Egg on your face.

My PE teacher Mrs. Gomez once said she’d never seen someone so out of shape in her life, and that flipped a switch in my head that made me say “Fuck you, watch this.” Mrs. Gomez, you’ll be astonished to know that as an adult I’ve worked diligently to increase my Doritos intake by at least sevenfold, and just the other night I finally polished a pint of Cherry Garcia off in one sitting. I can now run out of breath walking to the fridge, when before it would take me anywhere from 1 to 2 flights of stairs.

My history teacher Mr. Lee always said if I didn’t start taking my studies seriously, I would end up flipping burgers after high school. First of all, that’s racist (I’m German), and secondly, I applied to McDonald’s and didn’t make the cut. According to them, I was “wholly unqualified,” a “liability,” and “scary.” Would be pretty tough to flip burgers if I’m not allowed in the kitchen, wouldn’t it Mr. Lee? In fact, I’ve been 86’d from at least 47 different McDonald’s locations across state lines, which is a record that will stay standing for a very long time. Just another way that I’ve made a name for myself while you rot away in some stinking classroom, Mr. Lee.

I like to share my story to teach others that you are never defined by other people’s opinions of you. You CAN be worse, you CAN disappoint your loved ones even more. With enough dedication to never improving, constantly settling, and neglecting your well-being, you’ll surprise yourself with things you only dreamt of under-achieving. Never, ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

Enchanted Bucket Hat Transports Man to Magical World Where ‘90s Never Ended

Posted on by Nathan Kamal

SEATTLE— 42-year-old insurance adjuster Marc Barron was recently whisked away to Pibbapalooza, a magical world in which the 1990s never ended after putting on a mysterious and enchanted bucket hat, various sources report.

“All I did was put this bucket hat on after finding it beneath a pile of old Spin Doctors CDs and promotional Third Eye Blind keychains in this wardrobe at my uncle’s old country manor,” said Barron. “I must have blacked out for a moment, but when I came to, I found myself in this totally gnarly magical world. It’s exactly how I remember everything from the ‘90s when I first met my ex Tabi and before my weird back pain started. There’s Fruitopia and Crystal Pepsi everywhere, internet cafes are on every corner, and this dude with goat legs says I can crash on his couch until the Sister Hazel show later.”

Mr. Toddley, a magical faun wearing a Hootie & the Blowfish t-shirt, was worried about the myriad otherworldly dangers that lay before Barron in Pibbapalooza.

“Marc, this human child, this son of Ad-Rock, is special,” said Mr. Toddley, stroking his soul patch. “He is the first visitor from the human world that we have seen in goodness knows how long, not counting Kurt Loder, who’s constantly checking in. We must protect him from the wicked Ticketmistress, whose monopoly over all things 1990s has oppressed the talking animals, magical beasts, and guys named Chad for too long. He must be the one to help this terrible era of eternal ‘90s finally end. It is always the 1990s here and never even the early 2000s!

“I’ve never even gotten to listen to ‘Hot Fuss,’” said Mr. Toddley, breaking down in tears. “I heard the first half of it is really good.”

Kurkolmak, the regal Furby who reigns as the King of Must-Have Toys and the son of the Monarch-Beyond-the-Mall, had faith in Barron, to a certain degree.

“The day of the Ticketmistress is almost over,” said Kurkolmak. “Her curse of a neverending ‘90s, when the good folk of Pibbapalooza are forced to listen to ‘A Boy Named Goo’ over and over and the economy is good but only because of a tech bubble that’s just about to pop, will be broken. At least, that is what will happen if [Barron] ever gets the fuck off Toddley’s couch. Seriously, I’m beginning to see why he’s so stuck in the past. What a slacker.”

As of press time, Barron had gotten drunk at the Sister Hazel show and was vomiting up Olde English 800 and Turkish delight behind the stage.

A Master of Her Medium: This Mom’s Caption on Child’s Birthday Post Actually an Allegory Attacking Ex-Husband

Posted on by Rachel Hein

There’s a new frontier in the throes of marital and postmarital powerplay and it lies in the deeply personal and earnest letter written by a parent to a child on their birthday each year and posted for all the world to witness the boundless, unfaltering, selfless love reserved for mothers. And also… they fucking hate their ex.

Heather Howell, mother of three, has a colorful Instagram feed full of beautiful children doing cartwheels through sprinklers, eating popsicles on the Cape, back-to-school outfits and so much more suburban bliss. But what has really captivated audiences is her captions fraught with layered wordplay and double meanings. When looking with a critical eye, we can examine: What is she saying? What is she not saying? And what is the story of the space in between?

In a birthday post for her youngest child — an old skin-to-skin photo post-birth in which she looks at the camera, seemingly held by her husband, exhausted, proud, with a modicum of irritation, “put that camera way” — accompanied by a caption:

“Ginsburg, I can’t believe you’re 9! Time is so twisty and bendy. It moves both fast and slow. Where have the years gone? I realize what I’ve been missing and what I deserve. Love. Keep teaching me how to love myself. The past year has been hard on you and on me, but never stop making me laugh, even when it’s through the tears. #time #fast #slow #twist #bend #tears”

On its surface, a tribute to a growing girl and the unpredictable shape of motherhood. But a palpable disillusionment bubbles beneath. She keeps us guessing in one for her eldest:

“Happy birthday, my sweet Maddox. We’re both learning to set boundaries and say no this year. Bullies take many forms regardless of our age. We must forgive ourselves and others. I’ll always be there for you, you’ll always have me.”

The interpretive process would suggest she is as fond of her husband as Orwell was with the Bolsheviks. The wordsmith then dazzled us with her most recent biting post:

“Dear Luca, you’re 11 years old today. I never would have known I had the strength to be a single parent, the way a cactus stands alone in the dry unforgiving desert wind, without you showing me I could. When I feel like I can’t do it, I’m going to remind myself of today at Legoland (your birthday gift from me and only me) when I saw a sign that read, ‘Build happiness, one Lego at a time.’ …One lego at a time, Luca. Show me how…”

Some speculate that Heather has her sights set on publishing her work, a Pulitzer dangling in the distance. But children are useful literary tools in conveying a deeper message about marriage as the ultimate performance, making this her perfect platform. In pressing Heather for comment, she simply smiled, “I don’t know what you mean…? I just love celebrating their birthdays.” …She’s good.

GG Allin Chia Pet Has Very Different Set of Directions for Fertilizing Soil

Posted on by Chris Bratton

LITTLETON, N.H. — A recent release of a limited edition “GG Allin Chia Pet” elicited a mixed reaction due to the rather unconventional set of growing instructions, horrified sources report.

“Originally we started with a Hulk Hogan model, but there were a lot of complaints about the reduction of surface area that was being used. We then pivoted to a fine art theme, but test audiences found the Van Gogh model to be ‘haunting’ due to the realistic gaping ear wound on the one side,” said Bryce Liggins, designer at Chia. “But then bam, it hit me–what if we could create a model where the gardener could literally put themselves into the design. Naturally, we went with GG Allin, and the rest is history. You can’t make a fecal pitch without GG Allin.”

While users seem to adore the product, the people they share their homes with skew more negative.

“Shit. There was human shit in our kitchen. I couldn’t figure out the smell so I took the trash out, cleaned out the drain and checked all the mouse traps,” Christian Bach, a roommate of one of the first users lamented. “Then I noticed a scarred up chia pet sitting next to my spider plant, smeared with shit and seeds. Who would do that? How do you get it out of the toilet, and what do you use to apply it? The company that came up with a cute hedgehog and Bob Ross chia pets has now switched to GG fucking Allin! The target market for this can’t possibly be big enough to justify its existence.”

Jerry Cavill, an interior decorator who specializes in punk and gore, was ecstatic with the home décor addition.

“GG Allin is a huge influence on my work. I tell customers to ‘mutilate’ their banisters and trim with a razor blade for a fun distressed look,” said Cavill gleefully. “When someone’s kitchen is feeling a little too blah, I always tell them that blood is the perfect pop of color for cabinetry accents and pulls. Your house was already built with bones, give it a little bit of bodily fluids of any kind, and now your house is a home, a living home!”

As of press time, rumors speculate that the designer wasn’t an actual employee but a crust punk who wandered in after dumpster diving behind the Chia offices.

Opinion: It Doesn’t Matter Why I Already Went Through a “Lifetime Supply” of Hormel Chili, Just Give Me More

Posted on by Nathan Kamal

Look, I’ll say it plain and simple: it doesn’t matter why I already went through your supposed “lifetime supply” of Hormel Chili that I won, and I’m not legally required to tell you. All I want is what I am legally entitled to so long as my heart is beating: More of America’s best-selling chili and no goddamn questions.

I’m old enough to remember a time before the powers-that-be started putting definitions on what a “lifetime supply” meant or trying to twist the fine print on call-in phone contests on 95.3 KCHL, the Heat That Can’t Be Beat. I remember when, if you had won a supposedly unlimited supply of Hormel Chili, you didn’t get the third degree about how you went through 49 gallons in five days.

Back in the day, you just got more chili.

Trust me, no one wants to get lawyers involved here and tarnish the good name of 95.3 KCHL, the Heat That Can’t Be Beat. I’ve been a loyal listener to DJ Derek and the Municipal Madman for years, and it would break my heart to get attorneys involved in what should be a relatively simple matter of filling up the 55-gallon plastic barrel I brought to this station at my own expense and letting me be on my way.

DJ Derek has already had enough trouble with the law without getting involved in chili-related phone-in contest fraud, wouldn’t you say?

I would also like to reiterate that I read the rules of this contest extremely closely. As long as I was the first person to call in and recite all of the ingredients to Hormel chili in alphabetical order without taking a breath, I’d get a lifetime supply of any flavor of my choice. Is that not the case? Is it not?

You probably thought no one would remember “textured soy flour.” You were wrong.

Nowhere in the rules does it say that I have to eat the chili or produce evidence that I have eaten it. It also does not say that I cannot use it to fill potholes, regrout my neighbor’s bathtub as a courtesy, or use the famously sensuous smell of Coney Island Inspired Hormel Chili No Bean with Mustard and Onions as part of an ongoing campaign of seduction of said neighbor.

I’m not admitting to anything, by the way. And I certainly have no obligation to.

A deal is a deal, and as long as I draw breath, I will be returning to 95.3 KCHL, the Heat That Can’t Be Beat, for Hormel chili whenever I want and how often I like. Even in a benighted and fallen society like ours, we must respect a man’s need to shoot a high-powered jet of Hormel chili into the air every morning to greet the dawn using a jury-rigged firehose.

That’s what this is about. Respect.

Now fill up the barrel. I’ll be back for more Hormel tomorrow and I expect the Municipal Man to have it ready next time.