Ah, beauty and bone-crushing power meshed seamlessly into the human form, thy name is Mary. Or Maria, if you're feeling proper and formal.

Let me tell you about Mary: Mary is a pro-milkshake maker at the local burger joint. I'm not going to name said burger joint, because then everyone will know about it's ecstasy inducing strawberry milkshake and then i'll have no choice but to initiate "operation lottaburger overthrow" and only I will be able to ingest the milkshakes because Maria, her milkshake making equipment, and a large chunk of concrete and land in central Albuquerque will be transported (via tractor beam) to my secret lair miles above the earth in geo-synchronous orbit.

In addition to her prowess with a milkshake machine, she drives a bad-ass, totally pimped out SUV with chrome rims, big freaking tires, bullet-proof windows, and two 30mm machine guns mounted on the front grill.

Her body is built like a battleaxe; sharp, rigid, powerful, and ultimately deadly.

Her face is a unique mixture of the idealized Greco-Roman beauty and a functional, combat-hardened death's head. Kind of like Cindy Crawford with battle paint and full body armor.

One of my companions today mentioned his opinion of Maria's milkshakes, but he made a fatal error. His opinion was NEGATIVE. Unfortunatley for him, Maria lept out of her steel enclosure (breaking the bars first with a well-placed headbut) wrapped one dainty/powerful hand around his neck shouting "My Milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, motherfucker!" and proceeded to decapitate him using only her hands. It took about a minute of pulling, but finally his poor head audibly popped off. She tossed the head on the roof of the establishment (along with many others) and left the corpse there to drain into the concrete. Someone in the distance was heard to mutter the word "Fatality" in a gravely voice.

Maria Maria Maria, soon we will have the world in our grasp. And all the milkshakes will be MINE. If you don't kill me first.

--HK_Newbie

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So, one of my classes this semester is one called social change. Nothing too difficult; mostly theoretical. We'll read Weber, Foucault, Kafka...We're even reading American Psycho. But my professor...actually, technically he's not even a professor...my instructor is SO BURNT OUT.

Ohkay, ohkay...listen to me calling out burnouts...heh. Here's the story:

Today I'm sitting in class, taking notes or something and falling asleep with my eyes open as usual. Mr Burnt-out instructor is going on about Weber's Protestant Ethic and blah blah blah. No one in the class has read the text. Typical classroom situation.

Suddenly, someone asks him a question. It is at this point that Mr Burnt-out instructor goes into some crazy explanation that ends up being so general that it turns out to not even mean anything. He's straddling a backwards chair at this point, his arms laying across the back of the chair and he just says "Wait, that didn't make any sense at all...Help me...Can someone help me?" I am beaming at this point because this was just hilarious. But it gets better...he stands up, turns half way around (so he's not facing the class anymore), raises his arms in the air and says "HELP ME. JUST HELP ME. CAN SOMEONE HELP ME?"

THIS WAS AWESOME. The only way to describe how I felt at that moment is with the word "rolf." I was practically rolfing. But I also started to panic a little so I raised my hand to help the poor guy (I hadn't really read the text either but just general knowledge of Weber's theory could have answered this poor girl's question)...and I was practically jumping out of my seat ("pick me! pick me!") but he just turns to face the class and asks us a question about something else.

And now that I'm writing about it, I'm suddenly wondering if it really happened. I hope it did because that means there's more to come this semester.

Moral of the story: Drugs make you look like an asshole...but at least you're amusing.


--CalamityJane

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You know, for a long time I thought everyone was being nice when they said things like "RaiNny, you're really good at writing reviews. You should write reviews. No one else should write reviews because they're completely stupid when you read them. I'm hungry." and "People who write reviews are cock-sucking faggots!!! Except for you RaiNny, you're a cock-sucking TALENTED review writing faggot!!!". But now I know that you people weren't being nice. You were being truthful. You see, every time I read a review about ANY band I inevitably come across one word..."Incubus". For some reason, paid reviewers seem to only have one reference point when penning their newest auditory examination. I can only deduce two reasons for such a phenomenon.

1. Incubus is the only band that they are familiar with that bears even the slightest resemblance to the style of music the band they're reviewing falls under. And therefore, have no other frame of reference to view the music from. Obviously, this is a very bad way to look at things. By making comparisons between two totally unrelated artists, you're giving people who can actually discern between the two an incorrect idea as to what is readily apparent upon listening and thus irrelevant. This could be likened to saying that Dali and Picasso are similar in style. While they both produced mind-bending work anyone with apt ability would never say that what they did was not unlike the other.

2. Incubus is the only band that most people are familiar with and therefore the writers believe that using anything else as a vantage point would be impractical. This style of thinking is just as annoying as the first. If a musician doesn't really sound anything like another person and you compare it to them (this being the only thing someone else is accustomed to) then this time the uninitiated is on the short end of the stick. Now the customer has a false sense of what they are getting into. This is especially dangerous considering how dissimilar the two pieces might be (I once read a review (I believe it was in "Stuff Magazine" or another inane Men's editorial) that said The Deftones last album had elements of Incubus contained within it. Anyone who has any idea of what the two bands really sounds like would say that this is a horrible comparison. And if someone bought the album thinking that they'd get a sister-Incubus they'd be sorely disappointed.).

These two reasons make writing the editorials completely irrelevant as neither of these scenarios provides anything worthwhile to the reader whether they be aficionados or mere novices in the lore of the scene.

If you want some idea of what I'm talking about you can read two reviews produced by Rolling Stone about 30 Seconds To Mars, here and here. One thing to notice is that they were written by two different authors. So don't make the mistake thinking that it's just ONE dumbass doing this, IT'S A WHOLE LOT OF DUMBASSES.

There's only one other source for good reviews in the entire world (the other obviously being myself), ThePRP.com. If you make a quick comparison, you'll see that they almost always agree with what I say, and that alone makes it credible.

-RaiNny

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I've been spending much time at the jacuzzi in my apartment complex which is also known as "The Facility" to my fellow inmates. During my self-immolating moments, I have encountered various sorts of people. Cool people mostly. Actually, I don't think i've met even one asshole at the jacuzzi. Perhaps there's something about boiling hot water that makes people get along so swimmingly. Or maybe it's just my overwhelmingly manly physique. Yep. That's probably it.

Anyhow, these cute mexicana chicks and their family started to climb in the jacuzzi with me, and one looked right at me and said "Estas fria". Almost automatically, my mind splurted out "estoy muy caliente" (i may as well have added a mamacita to the end of that, because it came out totally wrong). She processed this for a moment, then burst out laughing and almost drowning in the 5 feet of fecal corrupted broiling water. The group took a liking to me and we started conversing--mostly in english. Another 30-something lady asked me "habla espanol" and I replied (once again, moronically without thinking) "un petit" which I followed with "oh fuck, that's french". The group looked at eachother, to ensure they all heard the same stupid thing, and promptly died on the spot (I presume from oxygen deprivation from excessive laughter), leaving their floating corpses to bob around at odd intervals in the spa.

Another case occured during my drive to the impossibly AWESOME New Mexico state fair (which, by the way, had a thousand pound PIG! That was without a doubt the most impressive thing I have ever seen in my life and I shall never forget that dear obese pig for as long as I shall live (until I'm 26)). I was waiting at a stop light and an Indian (not "pistachio and monkey brains". Native Americans) family in the car next to me asked me "which way to the fair" in perfect English (hell, the dude even had an Oxfordian accent to his speech and was reading an MLA handbook). I told them which way to go, more or less, and when he asked for clarification ("could you please elucidate that for me, my good sir" is what he precisely said) I just blurted out "Derecha". My companions in the car, like the people in the jacuzzi, looked at each other for a moment to agree that I did indeed tell them to turn THE WRONG FUCKING DIRECTION, IN SPANISH, but they decided not to snap their own necks in protest to the palpable stupidity emanating from my mouth, and the indian family just looked bemused. But perhaps they too decided that I was mentally deficient in some way (which I'm begining to think has some validity).

One of these days, I'm just gonna cut my tongue out; that way I won't inadvertantly destroy a number of lives just through bon mots of fatal stupidity.

--HK_Newbie

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Given my painfully copious amounts of free time in Albuquerque, I've had plenty of hitherto unexperienced and unanticipated moments of introspection, world inspection, and mindless drunken soul searching. Needless to say, all of these moments are bookended either by work, school, sleep, or running, or wishing I had a gun to shoot the various strange things that have been inhabiting my apartment as of late. But I digress--here is my step by step plan for world domination from an economic perspective.


Preface: This isn't going to be a needlessly bloody revolution or anything like that, though it will have its fair share of coups. Instead, let us conquer the world through its most ubiquitous, easily influenced, and most powerful organic compontent: the semi-global economy. I call it organic, becuase it is an inevitable mechanism of any society that has developed beyond the hunter gatherer phase. Society, for the uninitiated, is comprised of these funny little carbon-based creatures known as people who live in "harmony" with large, diverse groups of one another. It is in constant flux. And seemingly insignificant things like butterflies shaking the dew off their wings on the Veldt can ultimately lead to dozens of failed investors tossing themselves off skyscrapers in New York. Isn't that gorgeous example of cause and effect?! Albeit, it is a bit like a Goldberg device (and hence is susceptible to increased entrophy as more complication is built into the device) it still accomplishes the desired task (the energy expended to set in motion a series of events such as this is almost negligible. Considerable mental engery is required however, in order to place all the pieces at their proper place and time).




As society grows and develops in a strangely evolutionary pattern (apply evolutionary theory to the different "appendages" and "structures" of society. They're reactionary, largely, not anticipatory; See if you don't agree)the economic machine grows alongside it. Reflecting the culture's needs and values; sometimes chewing it up and spitting out a new version to better deal with neighboring societies and their own economies. It's like a mini-god. A deus ex machima, literally. Always on hand to recreate the scene whenever it goes stale or becomes too dangerous.



Great, now I'm aware that I'm babbling. What the fuck was the topic anyhow? World domination or something? You'd do best to forget this whole post, friend. Before I go, though, I'll leave you with something: homino homini lupus. That's basically the formative impetus behind my whole still-born plan for world domination. Rely on the inescapable fact of human nature to result in world economic collapse,then place my own version (appropriately titled "Economy version 2.0")into effect, and watch as everything trickles down to the guy in the center as the world is rebuilt, globally, under this new system. Economy 2.0 is centralized around my giant, phallic TOWER OF DOOM, and all of the resources of the world that i'll need to build some kick-ass doomsday device will be available. There will be tons of random enemy encounters in case anyone dares to climb the 99 floors along THE SPIRALING STAIRCASE OF CERTAIN EVISCERATION. And each enemy will become progressively more difficult, allowing the potential hero plenty of time to build up his experience to a ridulously high level where he will have no problem destroying myself and my earth-shattering harmonic resonator. (Damn, that sounds cool: "Earth-Shattering Harmonic Resonator". Was it DaVinci who thought he could split the world in half if he could find the right frequency?)

After all, it's not about winning, is it, my fellow villans? It's about having fun and looking cool along the way! Just ask Chow Yun Fat.


--HK_Newbie

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Greetings, potential investor or customer. This is our newest model of wanna-be assasin/uber-soldats, otherwise known as the "Doc Destroyer". The Doc Destroyer comes complete with over 2000 points of articulation, various explosive and non-explosive accoutrements, and 25 bad-ass one-liner's like the classic "ninja-style, baby!" and "you can't stop me, nothing stops EVIL!"

Our Doc (D) series of mercenary soldiers have little-to-no emotive capability or sentimentality; a feature that comes in quite handy during those "crush any and all opposition" especially if the rebel leaders are comprised entirely of attractive, idealistic, and boxum blondes.
Additionally, the D-series, when purchased in bulk, includes some specialized models that compliment the overall capabilities of the purchased platoon.


Sniper Doc: Is one of our more popular specialized models. He includes an Accuracy International .308 sniper rifle with a high quality dot-matrix scope, gila suit, and a cool looking pair of aviator sunglasses that reflect the departing souls of his vanquished targets. Or the sun. Both of which looks pretty damn neat, regardless.










One man Army Doc: Armed to the teeth in the latest high-tech gear; trained in the ways of aikido, judo, crav-maga; able to subsist entirely on ramen noodles and oatmeal; skilled in dissapearing, re-appearing, and forgetting where the hell he's really supposed to be; the one man army D-series is creme de la creme of the entire Doc Destroyer line of super soldiers.









Sneaky Ninja Doc: Is bred for reconnaissance and escaping potentially uncomfortable social situations (i.e. dates, parties, holidays). As you can see, taking a picture of one of these particular models is quite difficult, if not impossible, so the best one can hope for is catching a glimpse of a truly awesome shadow. The Sneaky Ninja Doc comes equiped with the typical ninja outfit, two ninja-burger hamburgers (for those long recon missions), and a mag-lite (for lighting up the darkness, or braining someone, or sometimes both at the same time!).




We hoped you enjoyed this short overview of the Doc Destroyer series. Whether it's enhancing shareholder value, freeing small countries from an oppresive regime at bargain-bin prices, or keeping alien forces at bay until you and your wealthy family escape to mars, the D-series is here to kick ass and take names.

--HK_Newbie

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WORD FROM THE EDITOR
--Hello again, fellow losers and welcome to our second issue of the "Loser Newsletter". Before we get started with the supplying of essential loser-related info, I'd like to relate a story of my own experiences in the realm of loserdom.

As I was told by a wise individual, I seem to have the enviable personality trait known among certain circles as "Flypaper for Freaks". Case in point: on the bus today a chick sat next to me. Not an uncommon occurence, given my undeniable sex appeal, but today it seemed that this particular chick was more interested in my freak appeal. Goddamn my freak appeal. Damn it to hell.

"YesssssssS" she made me aware of when she sat practically on top of me, "i didn't think i'd get a seat, but i got a seat, i hate itwhenidon'tgetaseat. Don'tyouhatehowpackedthesebussesgetbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (her words started to run together into an uncomprehensible buzzing noise to which I could only nod sagely in response).

The crazy chick proceeded to tell me all about her life in Albuquerque, her family, her home address, major, job, and basically everything else a potential stalker would need to know to make her life completely miserable. We then discussed the virtues of "Napoleon Dynamite", Aerospace corporations, and making money. I then told her i was from Russia and that I believed in the communist ideal. She gave me a weird look, then something lit up in her eyes, and she said "me too!"

Sometimes being a freak is fun! --Ed.

LOSER OF THE WEEK

Our loser of the week this week is none other than the greatest wizard of all the losers, Blackwolf. Personally, he is my hero. Yes, that's right! My fucking hero. He lives completely and totally disconnected from the sad world of reality, while still managing to somehow eke out an existance. That, my brothers and sisters, takes a rare mixture of luck and skill (not to mention incredible powers of denial). His website is an unadulterated look at his happily diseased interior existence. Garish colors, archaic language, and a slightly disturbing penchant for entertaining children are the primary topics of interest for Blackwolf. But let me make sure that I get one point across: This man is not THAT bad. In fact, he's admirable. Without people like Blackwolf, this place would be a hell of a lot less entertaining. Besides, have you ever seen a guy in a fake beard speaking a bastardized middle english while eating a whopper? If not, then you have not yet begun to live!








WAYS TO DEAL (with body snatching aliens)
This may seem like a bit of a digression, but I've been watching John Carpenter's "The Thing" again and again and again over the past couple of weeks (I watched it for the first time when I was 10 years old, and it profoundly affected me, and my ability to sleep through the night, for years to come). I've come to the conclusion that the group of men trapped in that Antartic research center-- while each person possessed an undeniable aura of coolness, or bad-assness, or psycho-i'll-fuck-you-up-with-my-knife-don't-you-know-i'm-loco-ness-- they were all LOSERS of the highest order.
Think about it! They lived essentially isolated lives out in the middle of nowhere by choice, they drank tons of booze, they hated the few people around them, and they
fought a superior parasitic adaptive organism successfully. Only a true group of losers could end up triumphant over a moster with tentacle strangling action. Even if they all did die at the end...
Highly recommended veiwing for everyone (even the normies). And Kurt Russel is a god among losers. I'm gonna invest in an eye-patch and legally change my name to Snake Pliskin.

LOSER QUOTES OF THE WEEK
"There's mice growing out of my carpet"--Your's truly after drinking a little too much Captain's. The mice eventually went away and were replaced with playing cards containing busts of famous dictators.

"Dude! How could you say that?! Everquest is the greatest game EVAR!"--As related to me by a native Albuquerqian, this exchange took place in the middle of a calc. course on the UNM campus. The comment, as expected, was recieved poorly by the rest of the class.

"I dance because it brings joy to people!"--Said by the ecstasy addicted, rave child who carrys a huge mp3 enabled boombox, and plays some of the gayest trace/techno music at annoyingly high decible levels. He then dances. I really shouldn't relate just how bad the dancing is, because one must assume that any sort of dancing, in the middle of a campus where no one else is dancing, must look pretty stupid. At least he has a reason; MDMA does STRANGE things to people.


That's all for now folks, see you next time!

--HK_Newbie

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Last night I decided to leave my apartment and make the long, difficult journey to the local cinema. On my way, I debated on which of the many horrendous visual and auditory tortures I should submit myself to. Earlier that day, I saw a preview of “THE TRANSPORTER 2” and I was pleased to see a really hot chick shooting people with dual Mac10’s. I was in love. I would watch this “TRANSPORTER 2,” if only to see the hot chick with the guns. After all, isn’t that what REALLY matters? Hot chick? Guns?

Yep. That’s all that matters.

Or so I thought. My god was this bad. Not even a super-hot psycho chick with cool guns could save this movie from utter, gut wrenching badness. That’s the only way I can describe it: “badness.” There are no words in the English language to accurately describe the way this movie insults its audience. Here’s a scene:

The Transporter, after successfully DODGING FUCKING BULLETS BY SIDE- STEPPING REPEATEDLY, is ambushed. There’s a gun to his head, and the ambusher laughs at the hapless Transporter. “Now I have you…TRANSPORTER” the generic bad guy blurts out, “now why don’t you just go back to your vehicle, because, for some inexplicable reason, our boss would rather kill you in a complicated, semi-poetic method. Now, off with you!” The Transporter gives a bad-ass stare to the group of bad dudes surrounding him, says something pithy, and on the way back to his car, he notices a shiny metal thingie with blinking red lights and a little bitty antennae attached to the underside of his car. They might as well have stenciled BOMB in huge neon colors because, as everyone knows, bombs must 1.possess blinking red lights 2. an antennae 3.and be very very shiny.
Anyhow, you can see his brow furrow as he attempts to identify it for a moment. His eyes light up when he realizes the nature of the bomb, he looks one final time at his attackers, they smile, he smiles, they laugh, he laughs, one guy sneezes, the Transporter says “Bless you”, the guy replies “thank you, kind sir”. After this uncomfortable exchange ends, the Transporter enters his car, drives it off a conveniently placed pole, gets airborne, AND A FUCKING CRANE SCRAPES THE BOMB OFF THE CAR WHERE IT (the bomb) HARMLESSLY EXPLODES BECAUSE THE BAD DUDE NUMERO UNO DECIDED AT THAT EXACT MOMENT TO TRIGGER IT. The car of course lands harmlessly on all four wheels, turns 360 degrees, dances a little jig, makes that cool “dweep dwoop shwwoooop” noise from “Transformers” and drives off into the sunset with crappy rock playing in the background.

It is at this point that I realized just what I was in for. Thank all the gods above for the genius inclusion of the partially clad hot blonde chick and two mac10s. I might have started a riot to end all riots were it not for this ONE, SINGLE redeeming virtue.

This particular scene is actually the schematic for the rest of the movie, with little variation throughout. Every time the enemy gets the drop on the Transporter and has like a million guns pointed in his direction, after he’s already kicked a ridiculous amount of their buddies’ asses and looked pretty damn cool while doing it (honestly, he’s got that “white Bruce Lee” thing going on, if they didn’t ruin it with stunts completely out of the realm of possibility, I might have enjoyed the fight scenes), they DECIDE NOT TO SHOOT HIM so they can mock him until he eventually, and miraculously I might add, turns the tables and kills them all anyway. The fifth time this scene happened, I shouted “Just shoot him, for christ’s sake!” and the guy next to me piped in “Hell yea, this is fucking gay.” Fucking gay, indeed. This movie was literally painful to watch. I haven’t experienced such pain in a long time…not since “Fantastic Four!” And that movie had Jessica Alba throughout its entirety, the Transporter only had “hot crazy blonde chick with guns” every so often.

Let me put it this way. I would rather die than see this movie again. In fact, I’d rather go back in time and kill myself on my way to the theater, creating a time-based existence paradox and probably destroying the fabric of reality. All because “The Transporter 2” sucked so bad. Good job, A-holes, you just made me destroy reality!


Oh yea, as a side note, .45 calibre mac10 bullets can't pierce wooden doctor's office doors, no matter how many times you shoot them. So the next time some really hot crazy blonde chick decides to kill you with a mac10, snatch the nearest wooden door and use it as an impromtu shield. Trust me, you won't be dissapointed.

--HK_Newbie

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