Help! My Favorite Band Reunited After 15 Years but Now I’m 15 Years Older and Don’t Care Anymore!

Posted on by Jay Wells L'Ecuyer

Trash Moth is back, and my inner 17-year-old is ecstatic that the band I worshiped in high school is finally reuniting after all these years. But oh, no! After a decade and a half, I’m a self-respecting adult and I just don’t give a shit anymore. Help!

At the very least, I owed it to high-school me to give the new album a spin. It had the vintage Trash Moth vibe, but the production was way too glossy and didn’t have the same raw feel as the old stuff recorded in Jared’s basement. Plus, Chris has this deeper, belabored scream that reminds me less of me yelling at my dad, and more like my dad yelling at the ref on TV. But most damning of all was my emotional indifference to the entire experience.

It sucks because their last album before they broke up in ‘06, “Desecrating Decency,” was utter perfection. I survived on that album for years. But around 25, I stopped caring about my teenage version of “cool” when I got in a fender bender and realized concepts like death and anarchy are best when relegated to entertainment and aesthetic.

At least it’s nice they finally worked through their various differences, addictions, and blood feuds. I’m happy for them. Especially their singer, who I heard recently kicked his addiction to throwing beer bottles into the crowd.

Honestly, how dare they get back together now? Who do they think they are? I wanted them to reunite for so long and by the time they did, I had turned that metaphorical porch light off. My parents have been divorced for 17 years. If they called me up today and told me they were getting back together, I’d be more pissed than when they told me they were getting divorced. At least I’d have the new Trash Moth record to help me get through it. Some things never change.

36-Year-Old Still Refuses to Admit to Parents She Regrets Fall Out Boy Tattoo

Posted on by Gracie Beaver-Kairis

PEORIA, Ill. — Local 36-year-old Victoria Wilkins once again refused to admit to her parents that she completely regrets the Fall Out Boy tattoo she got while drunk on her 21st birthday in 2006, according to sources.

“When my parents saw this tat, they tore me a new one,” said Wilkins, referring to the five square inch “FOB” scrawled inside a blown-out trapezoid on her upper left arm. “My mom actually cried and said I’d broken her heart. I’m still riding that sweet, rebellious high, even though I haven’t listened to ‘From Under the Cork Tree’ in like ten years. If I give in and agree they were right, it could literally kill me, so I’m committed to this for life now.”

Victoria’s father, Dennis Wilkins, cannot understand why his daughter will not just admit that the tattoo was an enormous mistake.

“Tattoos are pretty mainstream these days. Hell, my buddy Jeff even got one of a big ol’ bass fish! I just wish she would get it covered up with a nice flower or something,” he said. “I know her mom and I really gave her a hard time when she got it, but we don’t care now. I mean, she’s pushing 40.”

Wilkins, who rarely wears sleeveless blouses in public and who has perfected standing casually with her right hand covering the tattoo, insisted on wearing a tube top to her parents’ anniversary party to show off her ink.

“It’s pretty ridiculous,” said Amber Beeman, Wilkins’ wife. “She wore a long-sleeve dress to our wedding specifically because she didn’t want that eyesore in the photos, but as soon as her folks are around, she’s all ‘Pete Wentz is a God!’ and ‘Emo will never die!’ I offered to get her laser removal for her birthday and I saw her eyes light up for a second, before she refused because she ‘didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.’”

At press time, Wilkins confirmed that she had just begrudgingly scheduled a touch-up appointment for the tattoo, but that immediately after, she was going to go over to her parents’ house and rub it in their dumb faces.

Review: Beach House “Bloom”

Posted on by Dan Rice

Somewhere between the lands of Shoegaze and Psychodelia lays the great ocean of Dream Pop, an ethereal world of rich sonic texture as whimsical as it is bittersweet. 2012 saw the peak of this contemplative genres third wave and at the very crest of that wave you will find Beach House’s “Bloom.”

I would say deep diving into the soundscapes of this album for this review has been an absolute delight, marred only by the fact that it is now playing all of the time everywhere and my life has transformed into a series of surreal and melancholy vignettes.

It is difficult to explain, I’ll give you a for-instance. This morning I awoke to the playful sounds of “Myth,” the album’s opening track, and found myself dressed as Napoleon standing at a dock in front of an immense old-timey steam ship. Everyone from my life was there in modern attire, and they all shook my hand one by one in a slow-motion procession. Then Abby McCale, my first girlfriend in high school, descended from the ship dressed as the May Queen from “Midsommar.” She gave me a slight kiss on the cheek and everyone nodded as I boarded the ship alone. I looked down at the crowd from atop the great vessel and waved as the ship slowly sunk into the ocean. Everyone applauded.

Just before drowning and right at the start of the album’s second track, the meditative “Wild,” I found myself transported back to my apartment in my regular clothes. Things were normal save for the fact that my living room was now occupied by a bunch of computer-animated swans smoking cigars and watching a cabaret show, again in slow motion, which seems to be the only constant in my new reality.

It’s just stuff like that all the time now. Am I even writing this review? Am I in a coma? Am I dead? What in the fuck is happening?! The worst part is that I can’t even really freak out because of this constant soothing-ass dream pop.

I thought it was possible I just had low blood sugar or something so I threw a frozen burrito into the microwave, but when I pressed “start” the microwave and everything around it started melting, including my hands and face, while the burrito seemed to get colder.

I’m trying to think of more synonyms for melancholy to describe “Other People” but I am hugely distracted by the fact that I am now on the mound of a baseball diamond, the stands of which are packed to the rafters with catholic priests and nuns having a drug-fuelled orgy in, yup, you guessed it, slow motion. I’m holding my hat to my heart so I’m probably supposed to be singing the national anthem, but all that comes out are the lyrics to “Other People.” It’s actually pretty similar to the video for “Wishes,” so if this is a coma I now need to reconcile with the fact that my subconscious is an unoriginal hack.

Score: 4.5/5 Poodles Flying Da Vinci Helicopters

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Kinky Suburban Couple Enjoys Being Tied Up in Escrow

Posted on by Jessica Carreiro

DENVER — Kinky suburban couple James and Emily DeSantis took to their Nextdoor App late Saturday night to ask if any of their soon-to-be neighbors are also into being tied up in escrow, creeped out locals confirmed.

“Whenever I’m having trouble finishing in the bedroom, all I have to do is think about having a 30-year mortgage strapped around my neck, and I fucking explode. For me, it’s having the breathing room between outgoing expenses and incoming funds slowly squeezed tight and tighter…” DeSantis said, shuddering. “The home buying process hits all the right pressure points on your marriage. If you’ve never been absolutely dommed by a volatile housing market, I highly recommend it. We’ve been pulsing through waves of excitement and terror for months.”

Real estate agent Robert Bostich, who represents the DeSantises, reported that many young couples flooding into the Denver area are similarly inclined toward escrow kinks.

“It didn’t take long to figure out they were one of those couples,” said Bostich. “They told me they needed a 90-day escrow to ‘increase the tension’ and proceeded to send several late-night emails, calling me Daddy and begging me to ‘please let them close.’ I miss the days when people just fucked in the half bath at open houses.”

According to a recent study by the Kinsey Institute, being tied up in escrow is the second most common sexual fantasy among those 25 to 45 years old, behind being gently cradled by Bernie Sanders.

“For their parents, buying a house was a commonly achieved milestone. With these younger generations, the act of buying a house is deviant among their peers,” said Bianca Cordillo, a behavioral sex researcher with the institute. “Since many of them understand this fantasy will be realized only once in their lifetime, it makes sense they’d fetishize the most prolonged, torturous, and yet satisfying moment of the process.”

At press time, the couple had returned to their Nextdoor App, this time posting a selfie with their “brutal new third,” a printout of their high interest loan agreement.

Aging Performance Artist Unable To Piss on Flag Like He Used to

Posted on by Cory Cousins

MADISON, Wis. — An audience at a local coffee house performance art event this past weekend was disappointed when the headliner, Indigo Starr, was unable to micturate on the American flag as advertised, venue staff confirmed.

“Look, I don’t want to seem unsympathetic here, but how about I get my fucking money back?” demanded “Red White & Piss” audience member Audrey Taylor. “I shelled out some serious cash to see a flag pissing, and what was I left with? A man in his late fifties coaxing the urine out of his bladder, to no avail, by lightly pouring water out of a bottle while grunting and cursing. Thanks but no thanks. I’m just going to cut my losses, buy a box of chardonnay, and curl up on my couch with some MSNBC.”

Starr was available for comment backstage following the closing number of the show, “United We Stand On The Flag Right Before Pissing On It.”

“Everybody’s upset that I didn’t soil the flag like I usually do. I get it. Back in the day, I could piss on demand, no problem,” acknowledged Starr. “But now I’ve got a prostate that’s swollen up to the size of a grapefruit, and I forgot to refill my Flomax prescription this week. So sue me! At least I didn’t take the easy way out and simply throw a lit match on the flag like some kind of fucking poser.”

Starr’s manager, Gordon Davies, was noticeably anxious at the prospect of losing out on ticket sales due to urine retention.

“Bloody hell, I love Indigo. Who doesn’t? But nobody wants to come to a show expecting a profound flag pissing and walk away with nothing more than a slight trickle at best,” noted Davies. “Long story short, we’re losing money. Fast. I’m considering hiring one of my nurse friends to catheterize Indigo before the shows, so he can just empty his piss bag on Old Glory at a moment’s notice if we want to stay relevant in the anti-imperialist live performance circles.”

At press time, witnesses noticed Starr sneaking bottles of apple juice through the coffee shop’s back door for the purpose of creating what they could only assume was a “piss-like” substitute.

We Look Back on Jimmy Buffett’s Greatest Hits at This AA Meeting

Posted on by Jon Wood

As we open this regular meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, we ask that God grant us the courage and serenity to look back on a few of the classic tunes that have changed our lives for better or worse, and the wisdom to know the difference. We admit that we are powerless over Bubba’s intoxicating blend of Caribbean folk-pop and booze-fueled escapism. So with that in mind, let’s look back on “Songs You Know by Heart: Jimmy Buffett’s Greatest Hit(s).”

Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw) – I’ll kick things off by sharing that it’s been 15 days since this problematic crowd-pleaser was last stuck in my head. For years I thought I misheard that bizarre line about a “snuff queen.” When I finally googled that part of the song they must have added me to some pervert watchlist, because every job I’ve applied for since ends with me failing the background check.

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes – Regarded as one of Buffett’s more mature compositions, this was the last song I heard before blacking out in the school supplies aisle at the Target down the street from my kid’s school six months ago. Well apparently Billy didn’t have the glue sticks he needed for his social studies project and by the time my ex-wife got ahold of me, I was already working on my second pitcher at the bar where we got engaged and, anyway, long story short, I haven’t been able to hug my son in six months.

Cheeseburger in Paradise – If I had the same issues with cheeseburgers that I do with alcohol, humming the first eight bars of this track would be enough to trigger a series of reckless decisions that culminate in me being banned from every McDonald’s ball pit in the state. Have you ever really listened to the lyrics? Jesus Christ. This chart-topping ode to “heaven on earth with an onion slice” is borderline pornographic. Trust me, as someone also recovering from porn addiction, I know a slippery slope when I see one.

Margaritaville – In a career spanning almost 60 years, Jimmy Buffett has amassed one of the largest fortunes of any musician, due in no small part to this signature hit that was recently inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame. Say what you will about his cheesy antics or beach bum persona, there’s really no denying that “Margaritaville” is a tour de force of timeless significance. On that note, I’ll use these last few minutes to reflect on the fact that when Freddie Fishsticks wakes up naked on a Mexican beach with a tattoo he doesn’t remember getting, the universe rewards him with industry accolades and $500 million dollars. Meanwhile, I have to take two buses across town every week to check in with my probation officer.

Punk’s Only Form of ID Just Last Name Tattooed Across Stomach

Posted on by Ben Friedman

ASBURY PARK, N.J. — Scene legend known only as “Kowalski” has informed multiple local bars and government entities that the only form of ID he needs and has is his family’s name tattooed across his stomach.

“Way I look at it, when we’re born all we have is our name. All that bullshit with driver’s licenses and social security cards is just a way for the government to keep tabs on you and how much Busch Lite you buy,“ said Kowalski. “When I ask people who the fuck they think they’re dealing with, I’m not flashing my social security card, which I burned by the way. Nah, I’m gonna stand there bare chested and that convenience store clerk will know that I am KOWALSKI and that I want Pall Malls.”

Local bars endured Kowalski’s preferred method of identifying himself to a degree, but some establishments’ patience has worn out.

“Yes, the famous ‘Kowalski.’ He’s been kicked out of every bar in town, usually before he can even get inside the door. He’s on some high horse about living off the grid, and I mean good for him, but no one is getting past me without some kind of evidence they exist in this country,“ said bouncer Dave McQueen. “I mean, if he’d just tattooed his birthday onto himself as well I’m sure he’d be let into at least a few places. The other day I saw him begging teenagers to go into the liquor store to buy beer for him.”

Local police have arrested Kowalski on numerous occasions, but have yet to charge him with anything due to his true identity being a mystery.

“The guy is an enigma. He just showed up in town a few years ago with what we can only assume is his name on his stomach, because he refuses to tell us anything; not even where he grew up or his favorite color, which are the first and second questions we ask everyone,“ said officer Will Stumps. “We pick him up at least once a week for being drunk and disorderly, but we can’t charge the guy if we have no idea who he is, let alone what street he lives on or whether he’s an organ honor. I have to hand it to him, he found a way to beat the system, whoever he is.”

As of press time, Kowalski admitted that he also tattooed his blood type onto his ass in the event he is stabbed repeatedly.

Once I Make It, They’ll All Care About My Shitty Childhood

Posted on by Jay Wells L'Ecuyer

All my life I’ve dreamed of making it. This is my sole passion and singular focus. Sure, fame and money would be nice, but that’s not why I’m working so hard. What I picture in my dreams is doing that one interview right after you “make it,” where you unload all the shitty stuff from your childhood onto the world and everyone has to care about it.

People love hearing about the single mom working two jobs in some unknown shit-hole town. Granted, that’s not my story. I’m an aspiring singer/skateboarder from the suburbs. No one cares about my problems. But once my band makes it, I’ll finally get that pure gratification of people nodding along like, “Yeah man, my dad was a dick too.”

Famous people complain all the time, but when I complain, people just roll their eyes like, “Dude, you should be grateful!” Pfft, grateful for what? I had to share a room with my little brother till I was 13! And okay, my dad was physically there, but he wasn’t emotionally there, ya know? I had to get all my emotional support from my mom. You have no idea the emotional burden that placed on me. Not like any of you care. But you will someday, when my band is opening for AFI.

Drake got to whine about way less on “Started From The Bottom.” At one point, he complains about traffic and his uncle asking him to bring his car back. Come on, 6 God! My uncle never even let me borrow his car.

I guess I’ll just have to hold it all in until People magazine sits me down and asks about the nitty-gritty. Like when my mom took night classes for accounting and I had to babysit instead of going out with my friends. Or when my dad was all like, “My house, my rules.” So I moved out the second I turned 18 and started the sickest band! Sure, Dad helps me pay rent, but do you even care how emasculating that is?! No. But you will.

30-Year-Old Woman Makes Her Debut as the Family Mess at Cousin’s Wedding

Posted on by Rebecca Acevedo

GLEN HEAD, N.Y. — 30-year-old Melissa Crawford made her long awaited debut as the family drunken mess at her cousin’s Great Gatsby themed wedding this past weekend, confirmed multiple upset family members already writing her out of the will.

“Yes, I’m single. Yes, I’m unemployed. Yes, I’m sad. And yes, I do look hot in this dress. All of these things can be true,” said Crawford while hiding gifts meant for the newlyweds in a bush outside the church. “I only came to this stupid wedding because nobody in my family actually knows how to have fun. My Uncle didn’t spring for an open bar because he’s a cheap prick that thinks he’s better than everyone. It’s okay though, I duct taped a handle of vodka to my thigh last night and I have that fucker ready to go. I just feel bad for anyone that tries to catch that bouquet, because I’m either walking out of here with that thing, or I’m walking out of here with a handful of teeth.”

The waitstaff described Crawford’s descent into human garbage as both “breathtaking and horrifying.”

“When the priest asked the audience if there were any objections, this one woman with wine stains all over her dress raised her hand and asked why she wasn’t allowed to bring a plus one to the wedding. Then, without prompting, she started singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ while trying to beatbox at the same time,” said caterer Jeffrey Lewis. “She only stopped because she seemed to pass out about three seconds after she vomited on the wedding cake. She’s definitely in my top five most embarrassing people I’ve seen at a wedding.”

Emily Jung, a New York City based wedding planner, said a big part of her job is trying to account for unhinged family members.

“We always make sure we have fail-safes to deal with ‘troubled’ guests. Oftentimes it’s the uncle who gets drunk and goes on a racist tirade, or the mother that fakes a heart attack because she’s not getting enough attention,” said Jung. “But this wedding with Ms. Crawford wreaking havoc was on another level. Nobody could have predicted she was going to try to light table nine on fire, or try to stab the ring bearer, which was a Boston terrier named Iggy.”

Crawford admitted that she “can’t wait” for Thanksgiving, where she plans on drinking wine, wearing a cozy sweater, and crying for hours when someone asks her if she’s dating anyone.

Am I “DUMMY THICC” or Just Slightly Chubby and Extremely Dimwitted?

Posted on by Patrick Coyne

As a man, I’ve never really given much thought to catcalling. I was always empathetic to women harassed by men, but I suppose I never quite understood how psychologically damaging it could be. That is until recently, when a strange Internet man commented on a photo of me pontoon boat fishing in Goose Rocks.

“DUMMY THICC.”

What could he have meant by that? Was it a joke? Does he think I’m extremely attractive? Or is he just referring to my ample frame and my overall dumbshit demeanor?

To be honest, I had never heard the term “DUMMY THICC” before. But the fact is that I’m primarily known for two things in my small town: My luscious dump-truck ass, and that time I got outsmarted by some local street dogs that stole my pants and locked me out of my bungalow.

So, you can understand why I’m a little bit apprehensive about a person referring to me as “dummy.” Even if it’s meant as a compliment!

Also, I want to stress that while I’m quite the simpleton, I’m not that stupid. I mean, lots of people probably thought the “S.A.T’S” in high school were spelled “Essay Tees,” right? And I bet many other people spent the money given to them for textbooks on magic beans, but then ate all the beans before realizing that the only magical ability the beans possessed was causing severe diarrhea.

Anyway, I tried to research exactly what “DUMMY THICC” meant, but I just became more and more confused by the menagerie of bizarre slang terms I discovered: “PAWG,” “big dick energy,” “badonkadonk,” each more baffling than the last.

The only one I even vaguely understood was “BBW.” And while I ran out of minutes at the local Internet cafe before I could look up a definition, I believe that “BBW” likely refers to the TV show “Basketball Wives,” the Build-a-Bear Workshop in the Parkside open air mall, or Beckbrith-Wiesel syndrome, an illness which causes 2-foot long, benign tumors resembling Santa reindeer antlers to grow out of your forehead. Well, since the Build-a-Bear workshop burnt down last spring and I don’t see any antlers, they must think I’m some sort of basketball wife.

Either way, while it’s pretty obvious to me that this online creep thinks I’m sexy as hell, it’s never ok to catcall anyone, be they a woman, a man, or a particularly dumb man. But thank you for the compliment!

xoxo,
Me.