TRASH CASKET

Greetings, my neglected children! This is your CORPSE MONGER, returning after much too long in the void, to fulfill broken promises and offer you that ever cherished ride upon my knee. Did you miss me? Will you fuckin' PROVE IT by actually commenting on any of this shit? Time will tell.

So where the flyin' fuck have I BEEN this past two months and change?! Brothers and sisters, that is one hell of an answer, waiting for ya at the end of the rainbow. 

Homelessness rules!

As you all (all what, three of you?) might have noticed from our minty keen FaceBook page, the old headquarters - Corpse Manor - has fallen. We've abandoned it for greener pastures, and believe me, we've GOTTEN there...but not all at once. Not by a long shot. Myself and Mrs. Corpse had the unique and splendid experience of (FINAL-FUCKING-LY!) selling our wretched hovel WITHOUT having a place to move into in advance, necessitating us to stay within the sprawling basement apartment of family friends until we found permanent digs. Yes, technically, we were homeless. Hobos. Tramps. One step away from fucking C.H.U.D.s.

"It's only temporary!"

Now, maybe it wasn't quite THAT bad...but it sure as fuck felt like it. No matter how hospitable, living as a barnacle attached to the hull of someone else's life, even short term, is a drag, man. And add onto that the SUPER cool (insert dripping nihilistic sarcasm here) ULTRA-first shift gig I just landed in the middle of all this, requiring me to go to bed, LITERALLY, earlier than when I was in grade school, and you have one fried fuck-up of an author who couldn't write his name on a permission slip, let alone a blog entry any of his two-and-a-half fans might want to actually read.

Even still, I DID try and force myself to keep the glorious dream of TRASH CASKET alive, in those darkest of times...as those amongst you reading this now (Mom? Is that you?) may recall, I had announced an immediately-forthcoming blog entry back in, what, March, complete with a rad illustration from the days of yore...but it never materialized. You can't force a corpse to breath, kids (BEATING back a necrophilia reference here, but there's always time for that, this being Wisconsin an' all).

BUT...as you've no doubt gathered, the new headquarters are in full swing, the savage homelessness is a thing of the past, and the shitty, SHITTY job is...well, that's still in effect. But I'm workin' on that one. 

Of course, the biggest problem you face when you're totally vulnerable, is...other goddamn people. They wanna teach you how to live life! How to adult, properly! How to get through work correctly, how to maintain possessions properly, how to maintain a HOME correctly, how to...well, be THEM, really. Of curse, that's the LAST thing any of us wanna be. You know it, and I know it. So let's take a look back at ANOTHER time when people were sayin' a lotta STUPID shit, and the world at large wanted to take people like YOU and ME, and press them into something else...a time when people like you and me were looking ELSEWHERE for redemption, because you knew these assholes were fulla shit. Just like TODAY. So did I, boils an' ghouls. So did I. 

So with full historical context at our back, let's look at...THE '90s.

Portrait of cultural apotheosis

The '90s, as a number of you may well recall, was a strange time indeed. It's been said that the first couple years of any decade are essentially the final years of the PREVIOUS decade, and there's definitely some truth to that. In that regard, the sainted '80s won the lottery, because not only were they, well, the '80s, but they were coming off the five star classic that was the '70s, so the first couple years? Dy-no-MITE!!! It was like running up a promised blowjob with the best tit-show imaginable. Culturally speaking.


The '90s were...different. The first two or three years of the '90s were unmistakably the afterglow of the '80s, but unlike that '70s mellow gold that dusted the dawn of the Double Decade, the '90s seemed to well and truly hate themselves, damn near out of the gate. It really was like the bitter, needs-to-be-slapped-for-its-and-everybody-else's-good adolescent of the decades.

No jury in the world would convict you of killing these people.

But that's not to say it was a wash. Not at all. There is so, SO much to appreciate and dissect - even WITH all the absolute dross - that negotiating it all would take several chapters. And indeed, that's what I'm giving you, the few, the faithful, my non-existent audience. Your patience will serve you in spades. So we're gonna talk about Nine Inch Nails. We're gonna talk about the slasher revival, and the zombie renaissance - MUCH superior to today's - that no one was paying attention to. We're going to fucking burn Grunge to the ground, eviscerate malignant irony, shame short, post-metal hair. We're going to praise Playstation, Cartoon Network, and straight up suck Snick's cock. And we're going to dig deep - MARROW deep - into the seething, Bud Dwyer-esque self loathing we unanimously felt, both earned and repugnantly hip. It's going to be like Hunter S. Thompson got stuck in the wrong fuckin' time and place, and just had to start writing to save his flannel-bedeviled soul. You might commit suicide by the end of it, but if you do, I guarantee you'll sell some records. To assholes.

I leave you with this image. It tells all. It IS all. Grab hold, and don't let the trip roll over you. Listen to my voice. We're at Bayside now, baby.

Last Supper

 Stay tuned.