“I’m a Spooky Boy” Mutters Matt Skiba Repeatedly While Staring At Self In a Cracked Mirror

Posted on by James Knapp

LOS ANGELES — Notorious punk rock ghoul Matt Skiba was spotted monotonously saying the phrase “I’m a spooky boy” over and over to his own reflection just before taking the stage at a recent Blink-182 show, confirmed sources hired to act like apparitions in the mirror’s reflection.

“Ever since I started playing in Blink I’ve been feeling more and more like my spook factor hasn’t quite been what it used to be. Mark and Travis never want to talk about the Manson murders and they said if I bring up Anton LaVey one more time they are going to replace me with the dude from Fenix TX,” explained Skiba, surrounded by cobwebs and glassy-eyed Victorian dolls. “It just helps to affirm to myself once in a while that I’m still a spooky little guy and that writing songs about wanting to fuck vampires is the whole reason I’m here in the first place.”

Longtime Alkaline Trio bassist Dan Andriano alleged that Skiba’s routine of self-spookification started long before he was recruited to replace famed ufologist Tom Delonge.

“Yeah, Matt’s been insecure about his spookiness level since about the time ‘Agony & Irony’ came out, and I kinda don’t disagree with him. Man, what the hell were we thinking on that record?” remarked Andriano. “I’ll say this though, he’s toned down his ritual a lot since. It used to be that he would swallow a live tarantula before every show and then fart it out afterward. I’m still not sure why he thought that was spooky, but regardless, it made for some very unpleasant evenings on the tour bus.”

Emo psychologist Caroline Gibbons described how waning spookiness can manifest itself.

“Mr. Skiba appears to be exercising a self-affirmation technique that we psychologists call scare-apy. It allows the individual to build confidence in their internal creepiness, despite the fact that they’re multi-millionaire musicians pushing 50-years-old,,” Gibbons explained. “See, as spook-oriented punks age, they often feel distanced from their spooky origins and need to find a way to funnel that energy. Usually, I recommended they just rewatch a couple of Vincent Price movies but if this Skiba boy has found something that works for him then that’s fine by me.”

At press time, Skiba was found to now also be using the back of his hand to lovingly stroke the cracked mirror, which he calls “Dark Mistress.”

Review: Converge “Bloodmoon: I”

Posted on by Krissy Howard

Each week, The Hard Times takes some time out of its busy schedule of eating chips and dropping pretzels to review an album. This week, we’ll take a look at the reason why I’ve been acting so out of control and emotional this week, which happens to be the same name as the album “Bloodmoon: I,” by the genre-bending hardcore legends Converge in collaboration with Chelsea Wolfe.

I like to think of myself as an incredibly rational person with a reasonable head on her shoulders, because it is true, and also because I just like to think of myself as often as possible. So you can imagine my surprise when I attempted to break up with my boyfriend and quit my job and move to Utah three times, just this week. Something must be up, and that thing has to be not in any way related to me or my choices.

As with any problem I’m not willing to take responsibility for, I immediately looked to the stars for my answer. However, as I know nothing about the night sky, and am deathly afraid of becoming exposed to fresh air for any amount of time, I took my search to Google, where I learned we are under the spell of a Blood Moon. Of all the moons, this one is by far the scariest, not only for its name, but because it has its own songs (which are also not very helpful in creating a relaxing environment.) I’m not sure if the names of the symptoms listed here are some old-timey medical jargon back from when they used to nurse babies to sleep with an ear candle filled with heroin, but it looks like a “Scorpion’s Sting” is common during this time, as well as “Tongues Playing Dead,” which is apparently what my boyfriend suffers from any time it’s his turn to “dirty the sheets,” if you will.

Excuse me? What do you mean, “what day is it?” And furthermore, what else do you mean by “the potpourri that’s out at my mom’s house isn’t super dry gum?”

If you’re asking me whether the reason why I’ve been crying whenever I pass a calendar with dogs on it and have also been really craving both sweet and salty snacks might be the same reason I’ve cried when I pass dog calendars and crave sweet and salty snacks once a month for the last 24 years, then all I have to say to that is how fucking dare you? What are you, a fucking doctor or something? Men are trash.

I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. Will you pick up some Milk Duds if you’re going to the store?

SCORE: ZERO out of however many stars for its lack of conclusive information and also for making my boobs weirdly sore for no reason.

 

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Man Goes to Astounding Lengths to Find Family History of Parkinson’s Rather Than Admitting He Going Through Alcohol Withdrawal

Posted on by Patrick Crooks

BOSTON — Friends and relatives of local resident, Brian Gibbs, have reported that the 28-year-old has insisted for years that his frequent tremors are due to a family history of Parkinson’s as opposed to a case of DTs.

“Brian likes to hit the sauce pretty hard, we all do, but the guy doesn’t seem to want to admit the obvious to himself,” noted long-time friend, Adam Rooney. “He said his great-grandmother on his mom’s side had it, but one time I made a joke about him having the shakes he got really defensive and said his doctor told him he had a 40 percent chance of developing Parkinson’s and started tearing through his desk claiming he had it in writing. I told him to chill. It was just a joke, but he got really quiet for a while and then out of nowhere he just said he wasn’t alcoholic.”

“Kind of put a damper on my birthday party,” Rooney added.

Gibbs confirmed aspects of the story but questioned Rooney’s narrative.

“Sorry about spilling on you, too much caffeine gets me jittery,” said a violently shaking Gibbs while attempting to bring a coffee cup to his lips. “I don’t know what Adam’s trying to imply. I told him, and everyone else for that matter, that I have a family history. I showed them my 23andMe and it said people with ancestry from the Dungannon region of Ireland are more likely to have Parkinson’s, which accounts for three percent of my DNA. So I don’t know where everyone is coming from with all that ‘we’re not judging you but have you ever considered you drink too much?’ bullshit.”

Experts on the subject weighed in saying the stigma placed on addiction has led to an increase in finding any possible ailments similar to alcohol withdrawal.

“I’ve heard just about every single excuse in the books these booze heads will come up with,” stated Dr. John Freeney of Sloan-Kettering. “Sometimes it’s they mixed their medication or they didn’t really eat much that day, but, at the end of the day, they just hit the bottle pretty fucking hard and their bodies are now reacting to having a regular cycle of alcohol in them. Unlike me, for example, I’m just getting older and can’t really hold my liquor like I used to, which likely comes from my mom’s side.”

At press time, Gibbs was asking for Excedrin for the “killer migraine” he “weirdly” woke up with.

5 Life Events I Ruined By Following Instructions In A Dance Song

Posted on by Nathan Kamal

Everyone makes mistakes, and I am no exception. I have made mistakes in love, I have made mistakes with alcohol, I have made poor investment decisions involving an alpaca farm. But the things that weigh the heaviest on my conscience are the important events in life that I have utterly ruined because a dance song told me to do something, and I did it.

Let me tell you of the memories I tarnished through instructional song:

Cha Cha Slide: When I was in college, studying for a criminology degree that I had hoped would be the first step to becoming a Batman, my roommate was a guy named Rob. Rob was a good guy, a straight-shooter who worked hard and was the first in his family to go to college. Flash-forward to his graduation ceremony, when I thought it would be a good idea to do what DJ Casper told us in “Cha Cha Slide” as we received our degrees.

As I slid to the left on stage, then slid to the right, and prepared to criss-cross, I slid right into Rob and slid him right off the elevated platform. It took him five years of therapy to walk again.

Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae): Everything was going relatively fine, until it got to the point where the song repeatedly tells you to “do the stanky leg.” I did what I assumed was the stanky leg, and not what the police later referred to as “a physical demonstration of hate speech.” I was just trying to get into the spirit of quinceanera!

Do The Bartman: I just want to say this: the song says “Do the Bartman.” I did The Bartman. It’s not my fault that the funeral procession for the mayor was watching me move my body like I had the notion, front to back in a rock-like motion as I listened to The Simpsons Sing the Blues on a boombox in my backyard.

Boot Scootin’ Boogy: When I wandered into a Ramada Inn Banquet Hall, lured by the scent of all-beef pigs in a blanket, I did what any sensible person would do. I went heel, toe, docie do, and then shouted “come on baby, let’s go boot scootin’” at the top of my lungs. Sorry to ruin your birthday, Tad, but if you don’t want people having a good time, don’t crank Brooks & Dunn.

The Hokey Pokey: I’ll spare you the bulk of the details on this one, but let’s just say when you’ve just purchased a winning lottery ticket and stuffed it in your sock for safe-keeping, then your sister insists that you have to go to your dumb nephew’s first communion, even though the ticket is practically burning a hole in your ankle while Father Patrick takes his goddamn time with the Holy Eucharist, and then you’re told there’s a celebratory breakfast and you have to do it on account of what you did at your nephew’s baptism, and then the kids do The Hokey Pokey and you get dragged into, and it actually was kind of fun to stick your foot in and shake it all about, until you shake it too hard and then ticket gets loose, and then it sticks to the bottom of a passing waiter’s shoe and you chase after him, knocking children everywhere in your panic, and you tackle the waiter, but it turns out he played some football in college and he takes you down a peg, and then you wind up in jail and no one believes that you ever won the lottery at all, it sucks!

Bag of Baby Spinach in Punk House Fridge Slowly Realizes It’s Going to Fucking Die in Here

Posted on by Colleen Nerney

BUFFALO, N.Y. — A bag of baby spinach sitting untouched in a local fridge is currently coming to the inevitable conclusion that it will die in this Godforsaken place, other produce sources confirm.

“It just chewed away at me, little by little,” the completely full sixteen-ounce bag of spinach said. “It’s been two weeks since I got put in here, and I keep getting pushed further and further towards the back. The microwave vegan shit and the Chinese leftovers were eaten almost immediately, which is typical, but I genuinely didn’t think I would be in here for half a month without so much as a glance. I’m just coming to grips with the fact that the smoothie I was intended for just isn’t going to happen. This unopened carton of almond milk is proof of that.”

A nearly empty 12-pack of La Croix offered some insight into the clear pattern in the world of the refrigerator.

“I’ve seen this a thousand times before, poor guy,” the Pamplemousse La Croix said, taking a long drag of a cigarette. “They never think it’s going to happen to them. And then boom, it’s been over a week, and they’re decaying in their bags, totally unopened. I’m just glad that me and the 30-rack of PBR are safe bets. The guy that does the shopping couldn’t live without us, man.”

Onyx Barrington, the 30-year-old punk owner of the fridge, was insistent that he is turning over a new leaf.

“Look, I’m going to eat the fucking spinach, okay?” Barrington said, seemingly agitated. “Everyone is acting like this is gonna be another week of frozen Gardein chick’n fingers and spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, but I’m not messing around anymore. This is the time that I finally get my diet on track. I just turned 30, for fuck’s sake. I can’t keep eating like total shit like every other aging vegan I know, who survives off Oreos and the max dose of Adderall. I have a plan for the spinach, and will implement it as soon as I start working out next week.”

The spinach declined to comment further, apparently having had a panic attack after seeing the moldy corpse of a clamshell box of spring mix that had fallen behind the crisper drawers.

If I Can Dedicate 8 Years to a Powerviolence Band I Can Be a Faithful Husband to Your Daughter

Posted on by Yancy Lee Crawford

I know I’m not what you expected in a future son-in-law, but your daughter is marrying a guy with the kind of experiences you can only get on a six-week tour with “Despise You.” I admit we’ve had our differences in the past. You regularly call me “Spaz” with only one “z” when you know damn well my name is “Spazz.” And there was the time I called you a nazi because you didn’t have oat milk. But we can move past these indiscretions because we’re united by our common love of your daughter.

I know you’re worried about a lot of things when it comes to me and your daughter getting hitched. Where are we going to live? How am I going to make money? All valid concerns! But the last thing you should be worried about is my ability to commit. Hell, if I can dedicate 8 years to a powerviolence band, being a faithful husband to your daughter should be a piece of cake.

Stop laughing.

While performing ten minute, twenty-song sets to dozens of people at a time, I learned a lot about sticking to your guns. And that’s exactly why I’m faithful. Trust me, a guy that can resist the tens of women he meets playing shows at shitty bars and VFWs filled with confused townies is in it for the long haul.

Even better than my virtuous monogamy is my ability to provide. After almost a decade in “One Girl, 56 Dogs” I’ve learned that when you’re broke there’s always free ketchup at 7-11. No, seriously! They don’t regulate how many packets you take. Even if you don’t buy anything! As a husband, I’ll be sure there’s always food on the table.

I also know the only two ways to cure a hangover. You can start drinking when you wake up and go on a three-day bender that ends when you go back to work at 7-11 on Monday morning. Or you can absolutely never drink any amount of alcohol in your life. What other guy knows this stuff? You think some dork working in finance and running weekend 5ks while listening to Ed Sheeran knows how to stay sober while helping a 6’4” bass player bong Franzia so his head doesn’t hurt?

I know you want the best for Jamie but our life will be a raging seven-inch split until the environment collapses, fascism envelops the globe, or she realizes I regularly smell like onions. Whichever comes first.

Cool Teacher Sits on Toilet Backwards

Posted on by Ian Yamamoto

PORTLAND, Maine. — Local high school teacher, and all-around cool guy, Peter Thielbault reportedly sits on the toilet backwards whenever he evacuates his bowels, confirmed sources who wish they could pull that move off.

“I want my students to know that in school and in life, there’s more than one way to do things,” said Thielbault as he stood with one foot perched on a student’s desk with an undeniably cool posture. “We’re taught as kids to sit on a potty with our legs dangling in front of us, just passively letting poop fall out of us. But what if we were more proactive about it? What if we squatted and straddled the potty and really gave our poops our all? This is the kind of passion and outside-the-box thinking I want to inspire in my students.”

Thielbault’s unconventional defecation methods are not just reaching his students with, he’s getting through to their parents too.

“I had my doubts about Mr. Thielbault at first. His unconventional behavior like wearing sunglasses on the back of his head always confused me, but my son loves him,” said single father Bob Dwan as he sat backwards on a riding mower. “My oldest son Tyler and I haven’t been getting along lately – he thinks I’m this old, boring guy. But since speaking with Mr. Thielbault I’ve been doing everything a little differently. Just this morning, I used a urinal backwards by straddling the little lip that juts out and tucking my penis backwards. I told Tyler about it and he said it’s ‘based’ and I’m nearly positive that’s a good thing.”

Not everyone is completely on board with Thielbault, however.

“Peter is a good guy, but he’s making my job harder,” said Carter Robbel, the school’s most senior janitor. “Word got around about how he shits on the toilet backwards and now everyone is doing it. The problem is when people shit backwards, they miss the water, and all the crap piles up in the dry part of the bowl. Now I have to scrape partially dry turds towards the back of the bowl. At first, I thought the best way to do it would be standing and facing the toilet like how you’d use a plunger. But taking a page from Peter’s book, I’ve tried sitting on the toilet and I’m finding that it gives me better scraping leverage and power.”

At press time, Thielbault was taking a few days off from school due to a stomach virus, sources say he was last seen sitting on a toilet vomiting between his legs.

Photo by Jana Miller. 

Uh Oh: Dad Just Asked Our Server Their Name

Posted on by Dom Turek

Oh fuck, not again. Dad is motioning for our server to come over. She already remade his Arnold Palmer with “less ice” and agreed to cook his steak “somewhere between rare and medium-rare.” What more could he possibly want from her? Dead God, please don’t let it be what I think it is.

“Hey sweetheart, come over here for a second,” he shouts across the restaurant. She pretends not to hear him, which buys me a few minutes to try and reason with him. “Please don’t,” I beg. I even try to distract him by asking who won the Ravens vs. Broncos game last night, but it’s too late. He has become an unstoppable force. A man on a mission to glean what he believes is public information: her name.

He motions to her with the urgency of a drowning person. I try to pull him back inside the booth, but his arm has become bionic in his quest to get her undivided attention.

Unable to ignore his increasingly manic body language, she’s forced to come over. “How’s everybody doing over here?” she asks with practiced politeness. He answers by touching her arm. Time stops. I wince as he brings down the hammer. “What’s your name, hon?” he asks.

Stuck between telling him to go fuck himself and keeping her job, she introduces herself as Samantha. “Great name,” he says. He goes on to tell her he had a dog named Samantha growing up that had to be put down after contracting rabies. “Back then, there was no pet euthanasia. It was just you, your dog, and your shotgun.”

Saved by the kitchen bell, Samantha excuses herself to run food. “Good kid,” he says, contorting his body to watch her walk away.

Holy shit, that was bad. A least it wasn’t as bad as the time he asked our server at the Macaroni Grill to explain the meaning behind all of her tattoos. But still pretty rough. He tries to call her back over at a volume usually reserved for sports announcers, but she’s already busy at another table telling someone else’s dad her name is Caroline.

Pop Punk Blackjack Player Only Hits On 15

Posted on by Neel Bhakta

LAS VEGAS — Pop punk fan and amateur blackjack player Devin Suggs has fallen into debt after instinctively hitting on hands of 15, disgusted sources reported.

“One of the kids at the high school I hang out at got me hooked on blackjack and now I just can’t stop playing. I got into all the tips and tricks, like what the difference between a soft and hard hand is. But I don’t care what the rulebook says, whether it’s soft or hard, the number 15 just feels right to me, for some reason,” said 25-year-old Devin Suggs. “I just have a deeper connection with the cards. But I feel like if I hit on anything higher, my cards will get too smart and go to tell their little card buddies in the deck about my intentions. And if that happens, I’ll never win big ever again.”

Suggs’ roommate, Paul Zaracostas, expressed concern over his gambling problem and recent behavior.

“Listen, I didn’t really talk to Devin all that much before, but now I truly regret every conversation I have with him. Ever since he started this stupid blackjack rule, he hasn’t been able to pay his half of rent,” said a sighing Zaracostas. “He’s asked me to hang out at the casino with him but it’s just too painful to watch him play. It’s like he thinks the objective of the game is to get 15 because anytime he finds out his hand is 18 or higher, he loses all interest.”

The dealer, who witnessed Suggs lose money all week, had some concerns that the gambling addict might be revealing his hand.

“Yo, somebody has got to get this guy on a list or something. Like anyone in the service industry, dealers are usually forced to put up with their patrons’ shitty behavior. And man, this guy would not stop being a big fucking weirdo,” said a disturbed Angela Gauthier. “If all the girls you bring to my table aren’t of legal gambling age, that’s more than a bit suspicious. And stop reciting the same pickup line to these teenagers any time you get a Queen of Hearts, you freak.”

“Plus, he wouldn’t stop giggling at the ‘Loose Slots’ sign and it’s really distracting,” she added.

At press time, Suggs was kicked out after being caught cheating at the table because his underage girlfriend had difficulty counting cards.

Punk Can’t Decide Which Shoulder Rat Should Be His Plus One

Posted on by Doug Kolic

BROOKLYN, N.Y. — Local punk Johnny ‘Blades’ McPhee expressed dread this week after being forced to choose between which one of his beloved shoulder rats would be his plus one to his step-brother’s upcoming wedding.

“I don’t get invited to a lot of places, and when I finally do, it’s some bullshit about having to choose between my two ride or dies, Syphilis and Ass Vomit,” a distressed McPhee stated, referring to the two rats he keeps on his shoulders at nearly all times. “What kind of monsters invite you to their wedding, only to put you in some sort of fucked up Sofie’s Choice-type-scenario between your only friends/dependents? If I’m not here feeding these guys taco sauce every hour, they could literally die.”

New roommate of only two weeks, Darren Thomas, sympathized with McPhee’s predicament.

“Well, he seems pretty hung up on what to do, and I feel for him. I was told this place was no pets allowed so I surrendered my 10-year-old cat, Toby, to the shelter before I moved in here, so I feel like I can kinda relate about how hard it is to make decisions like that,” Thomas stated. “Maybe he can take one and just keep sneaking the other one into the library with him when he goes there to use the free internet, or something. I really miss Toby.”

Ass Vomit, McPhee’s older rat, also chimed in with his thoughts on the extremely tense situation pitting shoulder mates against each other.

“Fuck man, I want this so bad! The only place Blades ever takes us is to the liquor store, so the chance to put on my best little spiked denim vest and bowtie and schmooze a bit sounds pretty dope. Plus, everyone knows you can get major ass if you show up single to a wedding,” said Ass Vomit. “Syphy and I agreed not to campaign against each other and let the best rat win, but then I caught him whispering shit into Blades’ ear behind my back. I don’t know who he’s gonna end up taking, but if it’s not me there will be hell to pay, full stop.”

At press time, McPhee was replying to the invite with his plus one, adding “hantavirus test PLZ” under the “dietary needs” section.