There is an energy coming from the kitchen counter. I’m not hungry, instead feeling the familiar light giddiness and slow rise of my roommate’s special tea. Standing before me is a giant full red bottle of Tapatío. And there, dead center on the label is their mascot: the Tapatío guy.
Wait a minute. Is this Tapatío guy trying to kill me?
No. There’s a different vibe radiating from his smile. Is he giving me bedroom eyes?
Hold the phone: the mascot on this hot sauce bottle is 100% trying to fuck me.
A voice whispers in my ear, “Es una salsa… muy salsa!” I turn around. No one is there, but the faint whiff of Tapatío lingers in the air. What is this, hot sauce ASMR?
I decide that it’s best to play “hard to get.” I hide under the bed, then behind shower curtains. When the bottle finds me, I tussle my hair and grow distracted by his blue eyes, azure pools I could float into for eternity, or at least the next 8 hours.
I compliment his lush black hair and thick mustache, which seems to be dancing on the ceiling. I confess that I want Tapatío everywhere, all the time: on my pizza, on my breakfast, on my feet, smeared all over, caked into my nostrils. I need Tapatío inside of me. “I never do anything like this,” I say coyly to the Tapatío mascot. “This is so crazy. You bring out my wild side.”
Suddenly the Tapatío Guy stretches from the bottle into a sentient being. Horrifying yet beautiful and transfixing. He morphs into an Old Testament angel, a cluster of flapping wings and blinking eyes, wheels spinning within wheels. I obey my divine hot sauce lord by pouring the red liquid into every orifice of my body. I run outside, naked, covered in the magical sauce. Luckily this is a 32 oz. bottle, so I have enough to share. I pour Tapatío into a nearby USPS mailbox. I wave to my neighbor as I shake Tapatío into his gasoline tank.
After a wild day, I feel the comedown, aided by a microdose to take the edge off. Wait a minute: the woman on the Cholula bottle is staring at me. Is she trying to convince me to elope? Might have to listen to the Sriracha rooster, who is making a convincing argument for arson.
“Waste ’Em All” is pure, uncut crossover thrash: 16 songs in 17 minutes. None of that poser shit like catchy riffs or quality production. Municipal Waste’s debut is played almost sarcastically fast, as if they tried speedrunning their own songs. Same goes for Foresta’s lightspeed delivery, which is best described as “yelling in cursive.” The album blurs together like a night of binge drinking, so trying to recall any portion of it 10 minutes after hearing it is about as fruitful as trying to recall last night’s debauchery the following morning. Lyrically, the band mines obvious territory—violence, monsters, drinking, metalhead delinquency—with high school humor: “I couldn’t help but notice that the band I came to see / Was playing to the speed of motherfucking Kenny G.” But don’t let that fool you: wordplay like “Doormen don’t charge us / ’Cause they’re scared that we’ll charge them” hints that they’re (slightly?) smarter than they let on.
The band’s fifth full-length is kinda disappointing. The album’s good-not-great quality isn’t a problem on its own; it is a problem, however, when compared to the preceding three. As such, “The Fatal Feast” feels like a step backward. There aren’t any real misses here, but there isn’t anything outstanding, either. There’s still amusement to be had, though. There’s a story of a space voyage that turns into cannibalism: “Let’s kill the captain and stuff our face / He led us all to starve here—fatal feast.” There’s another about infiltrating a religion as a prank, only to have it backfire: “They’re not human, they’re possessed / The more I’m learning, the sicker it gets / Those who seek their secrets are hunted for fun / Not blood into wine, they turn wine into blood.” Even lesser Waste albums are good for smashing (empty?) beer bottles, so there’s that.
Municipal Waste’s sixth album is their first as a five-piece. So much for symmetry. Here, they’re joined by former Cannabis Corpse guitarist Nick Poulos, who adds some slick and showy leadwork to the band’s sound. (The instrumental “Under the Waste Command” seems to exist solely for this reason.) Otherwise, the songwriting remains unaltered, so we get another 28 minutes of Neanderthal adrenaline. Lyrically, “Slime and Punishment” is made for The Hard Times audience: the main themes are posturing, metalheads, and fighting/property destruction. Foresta also gives rap punchlines a try with lines like “I got more patience than a hospital” and “Your knife is duller than the tales you told.” He also recounts “Death Proof” with skilled brevity (“Twisted carnage appearing as an accident / Perfectly planned, diabolical degenerate”), suggesting that he may have a second career as a hyperactive movie-recapper if this whole crossover thing doesn’t work out.
The band’s sophomore effort contains stuff like memorable riffs, intelligible vocals, and decent production—in other words, a proper debut. Everything is an upgrade from “Waste ’Em All,” right down to the goofy cover art. Monsters and drunken belligerence continue to be the main lyrical topics, dispensed with a healthy dose of juvenile humor. This time, however, there’s some (minor) variation when Foresta’s channels “The Terminator” and “The Thing,” as well as life advice: “Stop mulling through your problems, don’t drink the pain away / Don’t use it for a crutch to start acting really lame.” Even his criticism of religion is fittingly asinine: “Hide behind the cross, telling lies of the absurd / How many altar boys are fucked before your time is served?” It’s got the nuance of a drunk uncle and the subtlety of an airhorn. Then again, so does Municipal Waste and that’s why we love them.
As the title and cover (drunkenly) scream, The Waste’s third full-length is their most party-centric. This is their Frank The Tank album, and can be summed up thusly: “Raging to a level of inebriated bliss / Pounding to the speed of the metal with our fists.” Of course, there’s still room for violence, and it’s handled with typical “Monty Python”-esque absurdity. The record’s funniest song finds Foresta using “open your mind” in a literal manner, despite the listener assuming it’s figurative: “What I meant to say just might hurt / But my intentions are far worse / The confusion of my strange advice / Can be solved in just one simple slice.” Musically, it’s a better-played and better-produced version of “Hazardous Mutation,” which is to say: another highly entertaining soundtrack for getting fucking shitfaced.
Municipal Waste’s fourth album is their first with some evolution. “Massive Aggressive” is more thrash than punk, with a few actual choruses and a handful of the band’s best songs and riffs. There’s some real growth in the songwriting and arrangement—like the nifty, NWOBHM-esque leads of “Mech-Cannibal”—that signals a (slightly?) more mature band. That’s true of the lyrics, also. Here, Foresta takes two (!) sorta-intelligent swings at religion (“I really do not get the part / Where I spend eternity in dark / Because I don’t believe in Noah’s Ark”), as well as an accurate, if reductive, criticism of the media (“You might think I overreact / But TV’s got me paranoid / Real life turned to entertainment / To fill some desperate void”). Fear not, though: he makes time for vampires, zombies, killer robots, and a lethal gameshow. Municipal Waste sorta played against type here, and the gamble turned out pretty well.
In which a crossover thrash band all but throws out the “crossover” part and makes a ripping thrash album. Maybe Arthur Rizk—producer and engineer best known for working with Power Trip—pushed the band to new heights. Whatever the source of inspiration, The Waste offer their finest set of songs here, featuring sharp and catchy riffs, flashy leads, and even a few hooks. Meanwhile, Foresta’s as entertaining as he’s ever been, calling the famous 1974 Ten Cent Beer Night “the best mistake this home team ever made,” and writing a song about killing someone and turning them into alcohol: “Raise my frothy mug of death / The flavor—the only thing of you that’s left.” It’s an impressive achievement to hit your peak two decades in. Let’s hope we don’t gotta wait five years to see what’s next.
That’s right, dead last. This “holiday classic” is hot garbage and we never want to see it again no matter what the situation or context. Oh, does that make you angry? Are we ruining your childhood? By all means, sound off in the comments and boost our engagement! Just don’t try to get us to watch it again, we’ll shoot our eyes out!
Oh, Chevy Chase. Doesn’t his aloofness remind you of your own dad? Yeah, well, pretty sure no one in your sex club wants to think about their dad. Pass.
Everyone loves the Vince Guaraldi Trio, but nobody likes Peanuts. People forget every few years and to everyone’s detriment. Unless your kink is being depressed and bored out of your mind, skip this one and just add the soundtrack to your playlist.
Come on, you’re trying too hard. It’s called kitchen table poly, not full-on 1950s nuclear family poly. We know today is all about “the family you made along the way” but ya’ll fuck. Calm down.
It’s the least boomer-vanity-centric collaboration between Tom Hanks and Robert Zemeckis, so, uhm, that’s something.
Possibly the least sexy thing with Keanu Reeves in it.
Show us a polycule without at least one crafts-goth and we’ll show you an eight-way hookup with no long-term sustainability. If your tribe is the real deal, at least one of you is going to be lobbying hard for this one every year, so why not throw them a bone, or should we say, a Jack Skellington? The movie’s over-arching theme of “Hey weirdos, stay in your lane!” won’t jive with you 100%, but don’t read too much into things, it’s Christmas!
Joe Dante’s “Gremlins” is a stone-cold holiday classic, and a great choice for your polycule’s holiday movie because it’s all about following rules and the consequences for breaking those rules! The terms you and your nesting partner, dom, subs, metas, and pups have agreed to are probably a lot more complicated than “Don’t eat after midnight,” but the message resonates all the same.
If you’re looking to pair Holiday cheer with undeniable pansexual charisma, look no further than character actor Jim Varney!
Featuring Henry Rollins in his most festive movie cameo since “Johnny Mnemonic!”
With a title as bold as “Santa Claus: The Movie” expectations are high, and this movie never quite meets them. It’s got the Big Lebowski as Santa, the Trinity killer from “Dexter” as the bad guy, and the dude who trained Rocky as an elf? This thing is a mess. Still, its overall theme of love winning out over consumerism in the holiday season is warming and important, especially when you’re fucking like 9 people. You would go broke buying high-end gifts for that many partners!
Yeah, we did this one last year. It’s not as steamy as it sounds.
This timeless holiday tale about how important one individual life can be is heartwarming but loses some punch when you’re fucking like a dozen people. “Can you imagine if Jeff was never born? I guess I would wind up, uhm… fucking Dave and Brittany more often?” Eh.
Everyone says this version is a classic, but there’s no muppets and no Bill Murray, so like, what’s the point? Without either of those things, this movie is not sexy at all, avoid.
“Here you go your honor, 26 Christmas cards all addressed to my sexual partners. How about a tax break?”
It’s an absolute classic, but if you’re polycule has a top hat person in it, and studies show over 20% do, you’ll want to avoid this one at all costs. Speaking personally, I can confirm there is no magic in my metamour’s dusty old “Look at me I go to Burning Man” hat, and the last thing that person needs is vindication.
A VHS copy of this movie would be a welcome addition to The Island of Misfit Toys. It is an oddity, to say the least. At first, you’ll be transfixed by the strangeness. Who are these dinosaur hosts? Why is the Hunchback of Notre Damn in a Christmas special? Is this supposed to be religious? But then the California Raisis start singing, and you’re like “Wait, have I seen this before?” As a person drawn to the polyamory lifestyle, potentially drudging up repressed memories on Christmas day isn’t a gamble you wanna take.
It’s considered one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time. Still, that title, it’s a little hard to swallow in 2023. The cast does little to dispel the negative connection. Unless you’ve got serious song and dance people in tow, maybe skip “White Christmas.”
Even Bill Murray agrees that Bill Murray comes off as way too much of a dick in this movie, but that just makes the payoff of his speech at the end all the more sweet. It’s like edging but with the Christmas spirit.
Poly people come in two varieties—those who earnestly enjoy the pageantry and ballet of “The Nutcracker,” and those who still childishly chuckle at the name “Nutcracker.” There simply is no middle ground, but that’s okay, everyone will enjoy this on some level, and that’s all you want.
Poly and anime, they go together like peanut butter and a thing most people who also like peanut butter are way too into.
Before we get into Alice in Chains’ sixth/most recent album, we have to put a pin in your proverbial hot air balloon by stating that the band has six full-length albums, an equal amount with each lead singer as of press time, and live, compilation, and EPs like “Sap” and “Jar of Flies” are not listed as they are not technically LPs. Brother, we got you, even though you’re wrong. Anyway, “fog” is a slant rhyme with “long,” but they sound different, and “Rainier Fog” is solid, but one had to be listed last, and the one you DON’T know takes the red giant cake. Still, opener “The One You Know” showcases elements of the band that hardcore fans are all about, like dissonant downtuned chords played in a slow groove with hypnotic dual-vocal harmonies. It’s been over five years since this was released, and we need more. Maybe.
Easily their best full-length, or worst, depending upon who is reading this, album title, Alice in Chains’ second effort with William DuVall, “The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here” debuted at number two on the Billboard 200, proving that fans still needed Alice in Chains in their lives, and many were cool with Staley’s replacement. Shout outs are also in order for Jerry Cantrell, Mike Inez, and Sean Kinney as well for keeping the Chains ship safe and musically sound. In a fun flex, Alice in Chains proved that they were self aware and chock full of humility/humor by appearing in “AIC 23” (also known as Alice In Chains Twenty-Three), a mockumentary about the band via a less humorous outlet. Fun fact: Lars Ulrich from one of the big fives, Kim Thayil from another in a different genre, and Tiffany from Debbie Gibson’s American Stadium Tour band all appear in it.
For every band that debuts with a new lead singer, there is an overwhelming amount of ‘em that end their careers right as they start a new one, but that could not be any further from the truth regarding Alice in Chain’s fourth and first effort without Layne Staley, “Black Gives Way to Blue,” which is one of the better hard rock efforts from this century if we do say so ourselves. It’s an incredible restart for the band and eventually went Gold, which is quite a feat in a post-Napster and pre-streaming world. Co-produced by the band and Nick Raskulinecz of Foo Fighters, Superdrag, Deftones, and Celine Dion fame, whose last name has more typos than Amon Amarth, “Black Gives Way to Blue” is a nearly no filler effort and deserves your time.
Alice in Chains’ self-titled/third full-length studio album is a departure, albeit not a HUGE one, but bands cannot/should not make the same album over and over no matter how many times Rancid tells ‘em otherwise. We must note that the harmonies between Cantrell and Staley are haunting in a beautiful way, especially given that this is the last AIC studio effort for ‘em. Speaking of “haunting,” the three-legged dog on the album cover makes us want to adopt a special needs dog from a shelter imeediately. Alice in Chains as an entity may have been called a sludge factory in the past, but we implore users of said term to brush away from such verbiage; shame on them. “Alice in Chains” is the band’s only Billboard 200 number one LP, but their prior EP, “Jar of Flies,” landed at number one too, and was the first EP in history to do so.
WHAT. A. DEBUT. We used caps lock here, and created one-word sentences to emphasize our excitement, but we swear that we are not yelling at you, the man in the box, or the sun’s sunny sunshine! Anyway, most bands hope and pray to make such a monumental first album, and praise is especially in order for producer Dave Jerden’s hard work on this LP, its follow-up “Dirt,” The Offspring’s “Ixnay on the Hombre,” and most importantly, the soundtrack to the non-existent “Sister Act 3: Breaking the Habit.” Also, “Facelift” is the first of two “no skip” efforts here, and if you have something to say about that brilliant stance that we take on such, we have no further comments on the matter.
Easily one of the stronger rock and roll for your party and soul efforts from the early-’90s, Alice in Chains’ sophomore full-length, “Dirt,” and their second of two records listed right here with no “skip it” tracks in any way, and a one-word album title, is the band’s highest selling LP to date, and likely forever and ever amen, unless the follow-up to their newest as of the year of our lord known as 2023 to 2018’s “Rainier Fog” gets named something dirty like “Mud” or “Filth”. Also, in the ’90s, soundtracks truly reigned supreme, and “Would?” was featured on Orson Welles’ “Singles”. The record came out at the perfect time as members of grunge’s “Big 5” were all experiencing platinum success in the wake of hair metal, and various tracks from “Dirt” would forever have a place in Guitar Centers via sunburst Fender Squier Stratocasters, junkheads.
