Rod Stewart pretends he's Rob Stellwart (#35)

Forever young. That song was actually written by Rob, but Rod was clearly better looking at the time. Better looking relative to a 400 pound cholesterol (the unhealthy kind) soaked gorilla-faced hunchback named Rob Stellwart. The poor sucker spent hours working at VanGrintner's one-hour photo, then hours working on song lyrics. He never left the house after he left work, and his commute was void of any random route adventures. He had one thing on his mind: write the best single of all-time that encompassed the feeling of the masses. Forever young, of course, was the theme of his psychological being, although his physical being was aging at an exponential rate due to the influx of burnt steak sandwiches with 1" of Velveeta cheese and frequent half boxes of Ritz crackers. Journey frontman Steve Perry had nothing on him. Obviously, the stress of his situation did. He buried a six pack of Canada Dry and two "vomit tacos," which consisted of butter and white bread jammed into a ball of cookie dough. After that, the lyrics seemed to roll off his filthy, sticky, pale tongue. He licked his lips disgustingly before writing each and every word. Most objective viewers would never put up with this annoying and unsanitary looking crap, but Rod was different. Rod found Rob through a secret talent agency (the same one where most pop artists find artists to steal from). He simply used the same simple tactics as usual and by the end of the summer, just prior to Rob going public, Rod was already copyrighting the lyrics. Coincidence? Rob often thought about this. He blamed himself and became depressed. He ate more and ended up bed ridden. He was never able to see Rod Stewart live, which satisfied him greatly.

Dio dies of cancer; I dream evil

Dio died because my dog died. In fact, there was no other year for him to die after my dog died. She was the Holy Diver. Think about it:

Shiny diamonds
Like the eyes of a cat in the black and blue
Something is coming for you

Shiny diamonds, of course, dogs are like a superior armor to your soul. Dog's have eyes as well, much like cats. Something is coming for you.

Between the velvet lies
There's a truth that's hard as steel
The vision never dies
Life's a never ending wheel

Ah, eureka. The truth is the end of course, and is hard as steel, but a cycle nonetheless. The vision never dies, as is evident in my dreams. Dio was doomed that fateful day in February when the white canine prophet took the last breath. Something did come for him, and he predicted it long ago through lyric. It's all very sad to me.

I dream about my dog every night. That vision never dies. Usually I'm defending her new existence: how did she become relieved of her death? Dio is not so fortunate. He remains dead in my dreams. I don't see him at all in fact (Some light can never be seen). This is also the truth that's hard as steel.

However, the new season is here. It's time to shake the dried, dusty, death from our hair and move on into the warm blue skies and murky, oily waters of the ocean. An era is buried again, for me and for local brooding metalers. God speed.

Clean up the tank

This treasure can not be taken from me
I have certain things, thoughts
To hold on to

These are the things that
Drift away on the winds
And never return
They land gently on old playing fields
And on the backs of house cats

I am the son of a bitch
That stopped your valiant effort
To take back the night
In between the moon and New York City
Then I repossessed

He was found guilty of treason
A sandy-eyed bleach tank
A nostalgia driven vacation
Out to a desolate prairie
On the high wings of American Freedom
Choose your words lightly

Learning (and Knowing) the commandments

So, you think that you know some details of human interaction? Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t. I shan’t be the judge of your wisdom, but please allow me the opportunity to be myself for a moment and allow you to digest me in all of my wholesomeness. After my showing, you’ll have the chance to determine how malleable you are and how much information you possess. This is reality.

I have a machine, for example, a bone machine. The inner workings are complex and possibly debilitating. You should watch the inner workings for a bit while I speak. Be yourself while you watch. Allow no influence.

Be on the watch though. Be on the ultimate watch you fool. Every chance the machine has it will take advantage of you.

Listen to me while you watch. Listen closely. I am reality. I am a crusher of souls.

Why did you come here? Why am I wasting my time with you? You sit sleepily in my bungalow chair and whisper into your thumb dial. You’re a fucked presence you are. You skate by my lair each day and lay waste to the grass edge consistently. You don’t even like this place, yet you grace it with your presence. It lacks grace in reality. I am here to pick you apart. It’s hard to believe that you see my bone machine through the window each day and you pretend it doesn’t exist. Very soon you won’t exist, but for on paper. The bloody tendrils of humanity reap what they’ve sewn.