Two Arrested, Charged with Posession of Anthrax

ocal residents of a small suburban community were stunned to find out two of its seemingly-adult contemporary neighbors, Bob Herman and Walter Isley, were secret metalheads when a routine traffic stop and search revealed the presence of Anthrax's State of Euphoria tape in their cassette deck.

"I can't believe it," neighbor Mildred Abramowitz said. "He borrowed my Yanni CDs several times. Now people are saying he doesn't even own a CD player. You think you know somebody..."

The album, called by some critics a disappointing follow-up to the successful Among the Living, does contain the melodic "Be All, End All" and the cover "Antisocial". Also confiscated from the car were Warrant's Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich and Trixter's self-titled debut, but authorities agree the only actual threat was the Anthrax.

Detective Roger Harlan, head of the Buffalo Police Department's Corrosion of Conformity Special Squad, explained the danger of suburbanites possessing metal and speed metal albums.

"The fact is that the rebellion and antisocial commentary and themes of metal and speed metal are meant for kids," Harlan said. "The idea of these themes spilling over into the homes of accountants, bankers, and homemakers is disturbing. Not only to us, but to the bandmembers and makers of the music themselves. When this music becomes the anthem of Lexus-driving corporate shells, it ceases to function and loses all integrity with the kids who sustain it."

Although Anthrax could not be reached for comment, Trixter guitarist/prettyboy Steve Brown said, "Spare some change for a cup of coffee?"

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I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.

My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.

I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.

Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.

Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.

I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.

I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."

Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.

I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation.

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Anyone who knows me should know I'm not political. Or at least I never thought I was. Which only means I never knew myself. Huh. How does something like that get by me? But it don't matter. I'm taking a stand, for once in my life. And it probably will be once. It's hard to take a stand for or against something. I keep forgetting I took a stand, and then I can't remember which side I'm on.

So I might as well tell you before I forget: I'm taking a stance against body grooming. Not all of it, mind you. I'm not some big slob or nothing. I'm still going to take my bath every couple of weeks, and I might even use soap. But no more of this bullshit about hair cutting and shaving and clipping nails and so on. It's all just a lot of crap made up by big business to sell us things we don't need, like electric razors and razors for the Amish and such.

Think about it: What would be the worst thing that would happen if you stopped cutting your fingernails today? Sure, a lot of fatcats who own nail clipper corporations would be out of luck. But you, with the long fingernails and toenails? If you get thrown out of a helicopter or airplane, you can just grab the side of a mountain or building on your way down. Save yourself from certain doom. That means we've been cutting our own throats by cutting our nails. And I'm done with all of it.

I'm done with haircuts, too. Done with lining some bigwig wig magnate's pockets with my hard-borrowed money by cutting off my hair and letting him come in after I've left to make some wig out of it. I recognize my hair, once in a while, when I see some bald guy wearing it on the street. Nobody else's hair curls just the way mine does. I'm losing all this hair out of ignorance and some greaseball with a dustpan and wig business is getting rich off my leavings. It's over, rich guys.

I'll just grow my hair out forever and ever. Grow it long, grow it high, grow it down to my ass, and then if it falls out from terror when it reaches that length, bury it proper and then grow it out again. I'm lucky to have hair. Even this hair. Some day I might be some old guy with huge bald patches and I'll remember all the huge patches of hair I left on a barber's floor in my youthful indiscretion. But that guy's not going to be me anymore. I'm keeping all of it, never cutting it again. And if any does fall out for any other reason, I'm going to develop an elaborate filing system to keep track of it all.

And I'm not going to cut or shave my crotch hair either. It probably goes without saying, but it always pisses off my mom when I talk about my crotch in my columns.

Face shaving is out, too. I've already got me the world's most beautiful moustache (despite what those elitists at Moustache Quarterly say) and I'm going to grow the world's coolest beard to be its buddy. They'll hang out together constantly, on my face, and go with me on fishing trips and to ball games. The best of friends until they grow old and gray together. I'll have a big thick beard and moustache, like that one famous religious guy—Manson.

The jury's still out on what to do with my urine and stools. But I've got plenty of jars, so there's lots of time before I have to come to a final decision on all that.

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