I have invented a new machine

That's right . .
Malach has invented a Machine that can tap into your mind while sleeping and broadcast your dreams on a television. While playing around with it last night, I decided to peep into the Angry Piper's dreams.




All I got was a still picture, which is worth a thousand words.

Interesting no? Palmer, Choas Dragoon, please shut the door this time when you masturbate to this picture, Mom doesn't want to see that again.

I am Malach, the reincarnation of Edison

Zangief Back With Vengeance!

Hello Amerikanskis!

So many things to tell, Zangief not know where to start! Zangief back at last from long World Tour of Street Fighters! Zangief fight Rubber Band Man Dhalsim. Zangief stretch him out long and thin like linguini noodle then use him as jump rope. Don’t worry about Dhalsim. He bleed a little, but he bounce back. Zangief wad him up in ball when done.
Get it? Zangief make joke!
Even though Zangief lose to Ken’s Flaming Dragon Punch (again), Zangief get some mad bitches, yo! Zangief knock boots with many Street Fighter groupies. They bleed a little when Zangief done, but they ok.
The other day Zangief go to Zangief’s friend Malach the Merciless’s house with Zangief’s other friend The Angry Piper. Angry Piper say he want to pay Malach a surprise visit, and Zangief love surprises! Zangief and Angry Piper find Malach in small building behind Malach’s house. Malach call it his “art studio”. Angry Piper knock on door. “Open up,” say Angry Piper.
“Uh…who’s there?” Malach’s voice come from behind door. He squeak like female mouse.
“It’s me, Piper,” say Angry Piper.
“Oh…uh…hold on a minute,” say Malach. Zangief tired of waiting, so Zangief grab doors and pull them open. Zangief tear doors off hinges by accident! “Surprise!” Zangief yell.
Inside, Zangief find out Malach is true artist! Malach hard at work painting three naked men! All three scream in fear of Zangief and try to climb over couch, but all are covered with slippery oil and fall down in big pile on floor like Keystone Cops!
“Ho Ho Ho!!!” Zangief laugh.
One of Malach’s naked friends poke head up from behind couch. “Holy shit—it looks like the Russian has a huge papaya down his shorts!” he say.
“Oh, Christ,” say Angry Piper. Then naked men giggle like girls. Zangief consider giving them all Spinning Piledriver, but that might damage Malach’s painting, so Zangief decide not to.
“Why didn’t you call first?” Malach scream at Angry Piper.
“Because, Malach,” say Zangief, “Angry Piper want to surprise Malach!”
“Surprise,” Angry Piper say, not sounding excited at all. He cover eyes with hands. “Uh, maybe we should leave Malach alone with the Pet Shop Boys here, Zangief.”
Just then Zangief see something very cool. Zangief see bullwhip sitting on chair, and think of American hero Indiana Jones, who is really just ripoff of old Russian hero Slomensk Petrovitch! Zangief grab bullwhip and almost drop it, handle so greasy! Then Zangief pretend he is Slomensk Petrovitch and start whipping like crazy! Malach’s naked friends try to run away, but they so oily all they do is fall down over and over. One even start crying. It so funny!
“Ho Ho Ho!!!” Zangief laugh again.
Soon Zangief lose grip on bullwhip and wipe greasy hand on chest hair. Malach’s naked friends slip and slide out the door.
“Please don’t tell anyone about this!” Malach beg Piper and Zangief.
“Okeydoke!” Zangief give Malach thumbs-up sign.
“Whatever,” Angry Piper say. He still covering eyes.
Zangief think Malach not want to reveal naked masterpiece painting until it finished, so Zangief not tell anyone. After all, Zangief love surprises!

Murk's New Year's Rockin' Eve- A Tale of the WoW

I was determined not to spend this past New Year’s Eve the way I had the previous year, staring through a drunken haze at stroke-afflicted Dick Clark mumbling and slurring his way through a backwards ten-count as the ball dropped over Times Square. I jumped in my Hyundai Accent, popped some Real McKenzies in the tape deck and weaved my way over to the palatial estate of Dr. Robert J. Murk, where, I knew, I was certain to find a Great Gatsby-esque party in full swing.
Or so I thought.
Instead I was met at the gate by my bug-headed acquaintance, Dr. Mantodea, who had just opened the door to his metallic green Cooper-S. I stumbled out of my car clutching a handle of Beefeater and staggered toward him.
“Mantis!” I yelled. “Happy New Year, you old son-of-a-bitch!”
Dr. Mantodea regarded me with inscrutable, insectoid eyes. “There have not been a sufficient number of ‘Fuck Yous’ uttered since the dawn of time to properly greet you, Piper. I hope you die.” He got in his car and drove away before I could say anything else.
I made my way to the door, where I was greeted by Murk’s stodgy English butler. Rumor has it Murk has his own Academy of Servitude somewhere in Europe, from which only the most disingenuous, wheedling, sycophantic and servile are chosen to be his servants. This one betrayed none of these qualities, to me at least. His lip curled in a sneer as he beheld my kilt.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I agreed.
“The doctor is in the conservatory. At his organ.”
I snickered. He glared.
“This is a dry house, sir. Your…beverage…must remain outside.”
I thrust the bottle into his hands, gin sloshed over his cufflinks. “I’ll find my own way, Jeeves.”
I wandered around the first floor for what seemed like hours, following the crashing, thunderous notes of a somehow familiar tune. At last I found Murk in an expansive marble hall, seated before a towering medieval pipe organ. He pounded at the keys in a frenzy, causing the organ to moan, wail and scream in agony. I listened for a while, fascinated, until at last Murk collapsed across the keys, spent.
“Wow,” I said.
Murk lifted his head beneath his bowler hat and blinked a few times. “Ah, Piper. Forgive me if I do not rise. I was just playing my favorite composition. It always leaves me emotionally and physically drained.”
“What was it?”
“The most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard.” A solitary tear rolled down Dr.Murk’s face. “It’s called The Curly Shuffle. Anyway, what brings you here?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, Murk. I thought I’d spread some cheer.”
“How trite. I suppose you have a New Year’s resolution as well.””Not yet.”
“Well, you should resolve to change your kilt. It smells of stale gin and balls.”
Murk was clearly not in the holiday spirit. Did I mention I was carrying my bagipes? Well, I was. I lifted the pipes to my shoulder and fitted the bag under my arm. I blew into the blowpipe and inflated the bag. The drones began to hum in harmony. My fingers moved along the chanter, picking out the melody of Auld Lang Syne.
Murk stared, enraptured. Slowly, he rose from his bench. It was working! Thus encouraged, I continued to play as he walked slowly over to me, a spellbound look upon his face. I realized then hat Murk had never really heard me play. He must be so impressed.
At last he stood before me. He balled up his fist and punched me as hard as he could. In the groin.
My pipes abruptly stopped with a shrill squeak. I doubled over. “Ow! My groin!”
Dr. Murk stared at me coldly. “Do not ever—ever—play that hideous thing in my presence again.”
I felt nauseous. My gin was threatening to make a return appearance all over Murk’s marble floor. “I need your bathroom,” I gasped. “Now.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You know the way.”
I didn’t; Murk’s house seemed to have an ever-changing and endless number of rooms and passages, different each time I visited. I stumbled out into the corridor and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. When I could breathe again I wandered up a circular flight of stairs upholstered in a Persian pattern. At the top I opened the first door I saw, hoping it was a bathroom.
It was not.
The scent of jasmine and lotus blossoms assailed my prodigious nostrils. I pushed my way through hanging silken sheets. From somewhere deep within this ethereal seraglio, a dusky voice purred. “Oh, Robert,” it said, every syllable drenched in promise and longing, “you came at last.”
Most men would have felt an immediate rush of lust at that succubus’s voice. But I am not most men. I knew better. I knew how much danger I was in, for I knew who it was that spoke.
I had unwittingly blundered into the bedchamber of the smokin’ hot Asian wife of Dr. Murk!
I moved aside another silken curtain, hoping against hope to find the exit before she noticed me. Instead, the veil parted to reveal that same beautiful and deadly woman I sought to elude. She lay upon a luxurious bed, faced away from me, her body draped in a gossamer sheet, one shoulder exposed and bare, revealing a tattoo. Despite my fervent desire to escape unnoticed, I was irresistibly drawn forward to peer at the tattoo. I squinted. I could just make it out.
It was a bowler hat.
Cold sweat broke out on my back. I inched backwards as stealthily as possible, but at that moment I stepped on a large bullfrog that had somehow found its way into Murk’s bedroom.
“RIBBIT,” said the bullfrog. Then it died.
Mrs. Dr. Murk’s head swiveled around, causing the sheet that draped her body to shift a little. Through sheer willpower I forced myself to stare only at her face. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, I was certain of one thing: I was going to die. I turned and ran as fast as I could, tearing silk sheets down in my headlong rush to the door.
She was after me in a flash, one hand clutching the sheet around her naked body, the other reaching for something lethal. Two ornate—and very sharp—hairpins embedded themselves in the wall a fraction of an inch from where my head was moments before. By some miracle I found the door and tore it open. I plunged into the corridor as something big and heavy shattered against the door.
I bolted down the stairs, feet barely touching the surface of each step, kilt billowing behind me. Half a dozen throwing stars thunked into the wall in my wake. Finally I reached the bottom and ran for the conservatory door.
It was locked.
I had little time to panic before Mrs. Dr. Murk landed behind me, her bare feet making not a whisper of sound. One hand still clutched the sheet, the other now held a very long and very sharp sword. She smiled. I felt my bladder let go.
I ran, expecting at any minute to feel the blade plunge into my back. I reached the end of the corridor and risked a look back. She was walking slowly forward, as if she had all the time in the world. I tore open the nearest door and ducked inside.
I was in a library. “Ah, Piper,” Dr. Murk said. “It seems you found me.”
He sat in a leather chair, a chessboard resting on his lap. He had changed into a velvet smoking jacket complete with ascot, and cradled a Meerschaum pipe in one hand. His ever-present bowler hat sat upon his head. From somewhere in the room came subdued music; Rachmaninoff, I thought.
I looked for a lock, but the door didn’t appear to have one. I tipped over the nearest bookcase, barricading the door behind me with a terrific crash. Dr. Murk raised an eyebrow.
Just then, a full three feet of steel—Mrs. Dr. Murk’s sword— was thrust through the door.
“You seem to have upset my wife, Piper” Dr. Murk said. “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”
I fell to my knees and sobbed out the whole sad tale. Dr. Murk listened in silence while his wife’s efforts to gain entry to the library intensified. The door was rapidly becoming a splintered ruin. When I finished, Murk sighed and stood, placing the chessboard on a nearby table and returning his still-smoldering pipe to the rack.
“So let me get this straight, Piper,” he said. “You came to my home uninvited, offended my ears with your horrid instrument, entered the private chambers of my wife, ogled her while she was in a state of undress, murdered her pet bullfrog, urinated on my carpet, toppled a Louis XIV mahogany bookcase and have now been instrumental in causing the destruction of my library door. I’m afraid there’s no hope for you, Piper. I’m going to have to shoot you now.” He leveled an antique flintlock pistol at my head and pulled the trigger.
It clicked on an empty chamber.
“Confound it. I forgot I already shot someone today. Be a good fellow and wait while I reload, will you?”
I don’t know how I made it outside, but I even managed to snag my gin bottle on the way out. One thing is certain: next year, if he’s still alive, I’ll be watching Dick Clark.

Movie Review: Carnie Wilson's War

Carnie Wilson's War
By Dr. Murk




Carnie Wilson: Fat

So, I went to Vinnie's Video to rent a movie. I was looking for that new one about how Carnie Wilson ate the Russian Army in Afghanistan. I asked Vinnie, because I could not find it. I looked in the drama, heavy chicks, and porno sections ( seeing Angry Piper in the drama section, crying while he looked at the cover of The Cider House Rules).

So, Vinnie says, "It ain't in yet."

I says, "When's it coming in?"

He says, "You gotta hold on for one more day."

"But I got this movie review to do," I says.

"Hold on, indeed, chums!" The Angry Piper burst in between us. "I know about this movie which you speak. I have... seen it." We gaped in agony. No. Surprise? Yes. That's it.

"Well, old friend," I said, "It seems that we have crossed paths after a long time at just this moment for a reason."

"You mean since we crossed paths in the drama section a few minutes ago?" he asked.

"Indeed," I said. "Say, why were you crying anyways?"

"Oh," he said with a wistful smile, "I was caught by a sad memory of when I once knew a young girl such as seen in that movie. Beautiful. Striking Asian features. She smashed all of my bottles of Cider and made me walk on the glass."

"Sounds like my wife," I said.

"It was," he said. "Anywho, no. No I cannot help you write this review. My affection for Carnie would taint... taint... mmmmmm... Carlie taint... ahem. Um, it would bring the full love and devotion for Carlie into the light of day. Plus, I hav this whole date with destiny tonight."

"No problem," I said.

"FATHER!!!!" he shouted, "THE SLEEPER HAS AWOKEN!!!!!" He ran headlong through the display window, into route six traffic, took a few bumps from the cars and trucks and rolled into an open sewer pipe.

So, I'm going to review the movie without his help and without the movie.

First off, this movie is heavy. It's full of delicious fun. The camera work is a feast for the eyes. Get the large popcorn because it's a big big movie. You have to see it wide screen. I give it two tons up.

The End.

A Small Victory

Recently, I posted about how some douche was ripping of my content and posting it on eBaum's World as his own. For the full story, go here.
I am happy to say that eBaum's World has removed the content from their site. It took a long time and there was zero communication from them (or the thief) despite repeated emails, but in the end, they did it.
Plagiarism really sucks. Thanks, eBaum's World.

Yeah. It's That Important.

Seen the latest A-1 Steak Sauce commercial? Here's a synopsis.
Two well-dressed gentlemen sit at separate, yet very close tables in what's obviously a fine dining restaurant. They face the camera. A big, juicy hamburger is placed in front of the gentleman on the left. He immediately reaches for a bottle of A-1, and commences a liberal application of said condiment to the top of his burger.
"Excuse me," says the guy on the right, "A-1 on a hamburger?"
"Yeah," the guy on the left replies, obviously impressed with his own ingenuity.
"That's a good idea," says the guy on the right. "Do you mind if I borrow that for a minute?"
"Sure," says the guy on the left. He reaches for the bottle of A-1 to pass it to his new acquaintance. Meanwhile the guy on the right takes the hamburger and eats it, leaving the guy on the left holding the bottle, feeling awkward, and looking silly. Plus, he's short a hamburger.

Let me tell you how this little scenario would change if I were the guy on the left. If I--out of the goodness ofmy heart and an earnest desire to pass on the joys of A-1 Steak Sauce--turned around and found this pompous fuck eating my hamburger, I would stand up and break my chair over his fucking head. I would smash the A-1 bottle against the side of the table and stick the jagged edge into his fucking neck. I'd probably ram his face into the table a few times, then drag his ass out of the restaurant by his hair and curb-stomp the gray-haired fucker so he wouldn't be eating any hamburgers--or any solid food, for that matter--for a long fucking time. Then I'd pick him up by his balls and throw him through the nearest windshield.

No one's gonna make me look silly.

How talented is the Angry Piper

Well Check this out
Here is the Piper with his "life partner" Hobbs von Wackamole playing the flute.

Amazing now, outdoes there first video with them and the guitar!

I am Malach and I bring the truth!

The 'Gief Speaks!!!!

You may ask: Why is Zangief dancing?

It's because he just swung by Angrypiper.com and found a new Conversation with Stephanie on the Fiction Page.

This makes him happy. Zangief loves Stephanie.

Zangief thinks you should, too.

Angry Piper: The Return (Of Plagiarism)

It's really no big secret that I've been missing in action lately. Aside from a few comments here and there, I've been a ghost in the machine for a few months now. If you've noticed, I'm touched. If not, that's fine too.

No, I won't go into why I haven't been around. It's not relevant. But I will tell you all what's new in Piper-land. I have a new blogpost on the blog and some new fiction at Angrypiper.com. Oh, and I was plagiarized. Again.

First, I have my first real blog post in months. It chronicles Day 6 of my Ireland trip: The Ring of Kerry. If travel blogging isn't your thing, or if you're sick of hearing about my trip to Ireland that's taking me forever to chronicle, then skip it. If you have enjoyed past installments and/or just like reading stories of me pissing off my brother in Ireland, check it out.

Second, even though I have been neglecting my blog, I've been working hard in other areas. I've decided, against my better judgement and despite what you'll read below, to post some of my fiction online. I call this series Conversations with Stephanie, and it's more-or-less something I'm writing as an experiment. Feel free to look it over if you haven't already. The first three installments have been up for a few weeks now, on my brand-new Fiction page.

Now, on to the plagiarism. A few months back I read something on Sara Sue's blog that basically said that if you post content online, it's not a question of whether or not you will be plagiarized, it's a question of when. I was intrigued, and so I visited Copyscape, which is one hell of a great website that looks for copies of your material on the Internet. I discovered that one of my book reviews was basically stolen; some staff reporter from the St. Thomas Source, a newspaper down in the island of the same name, lifted about 100 words or so verbatim from my review, published it as his own work and collected a paycheck from it. This annoyed me, and if you like you can read all about it here.

Fast forward to the present. Those who have visited my site may recall I have several Angry Rants available for your perusal and hopefully, amusement. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this rant has made it's way onto EBaum's World. Go ahead. Compare the two. I'll wait.

Looks awfully similar, doesn't it?

You'll notice it's in the profile of a fellow who calls himself Hawks81. I am not Hawks81. I do not know Hawks81, nor have I ever given him (or her) permission to publish my stuff. The most annoying thing about this is not only did Hawks81 steal my rant, he didn't even bother to alter the many references to The Angry Piper contained therein.

So, I registered for EBaum's world (as angrypiper, of course), and sent this fellow a letter requesting he remove the rant. Since he hasn't been online in a long time, I can only assume he hasn't received it. I also contacted EBaum's World via email and informed them they have copyrighted material on their site and requested they remove it. So far no response, but I'm optimistic; it's only been a couple of days.

Both times people have stolen my stuff (that I know about), friends have pointed out that it's kind of a backhanded compliment, because someone must think my writing is worth stealing. I guess, in a way, I should take it as such and feel flattered.

But I don't. I take it as a backhand. An insult. In the first case, someone profited by my work. In this latest case, while he hasn't profited by it, someone basically presented it as his own. He did not link to my rant. He ripped it from my site and pasted it in his profile uncredited. Oh, and lest I forget, currently there's a "contest" of sorts going on at EBaum's world where the best (i.e. funniest) rants will be selected and posted in a special area of the site for public accolade.

EBaum's world gets a lot of traffic, and that's potentially a lot of online exposure for my writing. Exposure that could not only benefit Angrypiper.com, but indirectly benefit Third Option Media as well. I'm not saying my rant is likely to win, but if it did, I wouldn't know fuck-all about it. But boy, that Hawks81 guy would sure look clever and witty.

The Wand of Wonder is a home to many talented and creative people. I urge anyone who cares about his or her online material to use Copyscape or a related search service and make certain your stuff isn't getting stolen. Christopher Morris, I'm looking in your direction; also at folks like Malach, who has already found his artwork being used without his permission, CJOwen and Ben Byrd, who write interesting fiction, and the Cap'n, who is reponsible for some seriously hilarious shit.

Fuck Plagiarism.

Shaving Update

It’s official. I’ve got a scar. My face is permanently disfigured.

I blame Eve for this. After all, she bought me a razor that wasn’t sharp enough, so I had to switch to one that was—one that scarred me. Thanks to her, my dream of being an Abercrombie & Fitch model is now permanently shattered.

If I had a nickel for every time Eve has ruined my life, I could retire today.

Eve, you just suck.

Sweeney Todd's Got Nothing On Me.

As you can see from the many photos of me that grace the Internet, The Angry Piper is one good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Last week, something happened that threatened to mar my beauty forever. As many of you may know, I shave with a straight razor, and it’s my opinion that anyone who doesn’t is a flaming pussy, much like Malach. (I'd say much like Dr. Murk, but I wouldn't dare call Murk a flaming pussy if he was dressed in a cat costume and set on fire.)



Some of you may recognize Old Sharpy, my first straight razor, at the top of the picture above. The next one down is a beautiful 5/8”, very similar to Old Sharpy and in fact made by the same company, Dovo. This was a birthday gift from my old friend Eve, who spent way too much fucking money on me as usual.
Old Sharpy certainly lives up to his name, but, alas, he doesn’t get much use any more. I’ve discovered I like wider razors. My favorite— the one I shave with almost all the time—is the third one down, a spike-tip 7/8” Wade & Butcher I paid six bucks for at a yard sale, then lovingly restored and honed it to, well, razor-sharpness. (The last razor is another example of my predilection for shaving with things that could conceivably be used to split wood, another 7/8”, but with a slightly different blade shape. )
I have been shaving straight for a year or so now, and up until last week I managed to avoid any serious mishaps. Last Sunday I decided I would try out Eve’s birthday gift. Contrary to what I first believed when I bought Old Sharpy, no razor is shave-ready out of the box. I honed up my new razor until it felt sharp enough, lathered up, and went to town. After one swipe, it was obvious that I hadn’t honed it enough, as it was pulling my whiskers rather than cutting them. So I rinsed the blade, folded it up, and grabbed my favorite W&B to finish the job. I shaved about ¾ of my face before I decided I would switch hands and shave the left side of my face with my left hand. As strange as this may sound this is actually a very desirable skill to learn, as otherwise I would have to reverse the razor in an awkward grip to shave the left side with my right hand. Plus, I would consider it cheating.
Once, when stropping the W&B prior to shaving, I accidentally reversed the blade direction and neatly sliced through about ¼” of the leather strop. Any worries periodically entertained that my razors aren’t sharp enough are, quite simply, ridiculous. If it can slice cleanly through cured leather, it should come as no surprise that holding it at the wrong angle relative to your skin is a bad idea. I barely dragged the razor an inch before sinking the blade solidly into my left cheek.
Your face is full of blood vessels. When cut, the face bleeds an awful lot. Mine is no exception.
So, after I cleaned myself up as best I could (alcohol, triple antibiotic ointment, gauze and surgical tape), I resolved not to shave until the wound had healed, as I didn’t want to open the cut again and scar my purty face. So, for the next eight days, I did the unthinkable. I let my beard grow.
I loathe facial hair. Particularly my own. After 3 days it began to itch. After 6 days my skin began to break out beneath the hair. Yesterday, Day 8, I could stand it no longer. Although the scab hasn’t healed from the initial cut, I broke out the W&B and mowed my face until it was as smooth as Hojo’s pubes.
The good news is the scab is healing nicely and I’m unlikely to have a scar. The better news is my face is once again clean-shaven.
And I learned a very valuable lesson: never shave drunk.
Kidding.

Merry Xmas WoWees

The WoW wishes you all Happy Holidays
To the contributers who make this popular, the readers, and anyone else. Happy Holidays. Now don't get jealous, I got a special gift for the Angry Piper . . . For you next thread on Who You Want to Do the Sex With . . . I present your love, Toyi, expecially dressed for you:I am Malach and I get the job done

A Christmas Carol

Courtesy of Siouxsie Sioux.
Scary that Murk, Malach and I all know the words.

(Yet Another) Five Women The Angry Piper Would Totally Do The Sex With (Besides Toyi)

1. Mimi Rogers
She was once married to Tom Cruise. She is no longer married to him. Since then, Tom has been married twice: first to Nicole Kidman and now, Katie Holmes. In case you needed it, here is further proof that Tom Cruise is a fucking whackbag.



2. Sophie Marceau
Once named “The Woman Most Men want to Sleep With” in her native France. Not very hard to see why.

3. Famke Janssen
Look at this picture. Just look at it. If I still need to explain myself, I cannot help you. You obviously love cock.

4. Catherine Bell
However, not even her incredible hotness can entice me to watch JAG.

5. Jennifer Tilly

Yes. For exactly the reasons you think.

Bonus: Queen Latifah
Is anyone who knows me at all surprised by this?

I Love the 80's

Hey Malach, how many of these CDs do you own?



BEST VIDEO EVER!!!!



The only song worth listening to from The Lost Boys Soundtrack. Michael Hutchins, Malach and I sorely miss you.



Think this guy idolized Jim Morrison much?



Danny Elfman is a fucking genius.



I had a lot of sex to this CD back in 1990. I would have had a lot of sex to it when it came out, but I didn't actually have sex until 1990. One of the best, most underrated voices in contemporary music.



OK, so they don't want the video embedded. You can look at it here instead.



This song will forever remind me of Alice Fangueiro. Not that anyone aside from Malach will know who that is.



Three guesses why I love this song. Hint: it rhymes with "Magpipes".

I still love all of these songs. Anyone in high school in the 1980's was singing along. Admit it.

Five (More) Women The Angry Piper Would Totally Do The Sex With (Besides Toyita)

In case you missed my September post, here's a link. I've been thinking about it since then, and I've come up with five more future candidates for post-traumatic stress disorder. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. Lili Taylor: She made honorable mention last time (no doubt she's very proud of that), but I just saw Factotum and was reminded how incredibly hot she is, so she's officially on the list this time around. Only trouble is, she somewhat resembles Eve (but without the huge tits), and the thought of doing anything remotely sexual with Eve fills me with...icky.

2. Salma Hayek: Speaking of tits, I sure love this picture. I can't believe I forgot about her the first time around.

3. Amy Winehouse: To all the guys out there, I ask you: Could you just imagine?

4. Iron Chef Cat Cora: Oh, hell yes. And she's way sexier than Mario Batali.

5. P J Harvey: Probably the only woman Malach and I would fight over, like Kirk and Spock in "Amok Time", complete with dramatic music and sharp, pointy sticks. More than anyone else on either list, I FUCKING LOVE THIS WOMAN.

Those who know me may be shocked by the exclusion of any big girls. You may ask: is it possible The Angry Piper is changing his tastes? Fuck no. I'm still all about the big girls. But there are very few famous big girls, and fewer still that are attractive.

And don't worry, Toyi: you're still my rock & roll fantasy.

Plagiarism Blows!

First: thanks bunches to Sara Sue. You’ll find out why in a minute.

About two years ago, I did a review of Peter Schaffer’s Equus for my site. You can read it here if you like; it’s not long. My motive for writing this review—indeed, my motive for writing all my reviews—was to inform and recommend literary works that I personally find enjoyable, thought-provoking and worthwhile. I did this in the hopes that the reviews would spark interesting conversation. I also did it for free.

I was blog-hopping this weekend, and I swung by Sara Says like I always do on or around Friday. While I was disappointed that I didn’t find what I look for every week (it’s been postponed), I did find a link to this post, all about content theft, copyright infringement, and how to protect yourself from same. So, thanks to Sara for posting the link; and thanks to Mike, whoever he is, for sending it to Sara, so she could pass it on to everyone looking or free boob pictures.

I remember Malach had an issue a year or so ago with someone displaying his artwork without his permission. I decided to take Lorelle’s advice and see if anyone had been ripping me off, so I went to Copyscape and started typing in webpage URLs from Angrypiper.com. I went through about nine or so, until I found what I was looking for. You see, it seems that last year, on the island of St. Thomas, USVI, a production of Equus made the rounds. It fell to the St. Thomas Source to cover the story. Based on what I’ve been able to determine, the “Source staff” who was assigned to do the job lifted a little less than a hundred words from the book review originally posted on Hill TV, word for word, without my permission. You can see for yourself here.

I find it very easy to imagine this job being handed off to someone who doesn’t normally cover entertainment news, perhaps an intern; someone who probably had no idea what the play was about but had to write a review. Hence the generic “Source staff” byline. Rather than read the play himself (something that would probably take the average literate person a whole two hours to do) or even rent the movie (again, two hours max with no reading invlolved), he decides to hit the web for a synopsis. “Source staff” Googles “Equus review” and gets my site. He figures Angrypiper.com for a small vanity site (which it more or less is), and he figures the traffic is probably low (actually, it’s higher than you’d think), so the chances of discovery are minimal. He’s right; I probably never would have noticed it if not for Sara Sue’s link.

It should be noted that I am ignoring Lorelle’s advice right now by posting anything about this before attempting to resolve this issue. But I don’t expect much in the way of resolution. The St. Thomas Source probably has a small circulation (not counting, obviously, the Internet). Besides, the page is full of dead image links and probably isn’t visited very often, and since the production ended a year ago, it hardly seems relevant, does it?

It does to me. Understand: when I first started posting book reviews, I pretty much expected “uncredited excerpts” of them to wind up on term papers and stuff like that. What really bothers me about this is not so much that “Source staff” stole my work without asking and published it as his own. (Although that does bother me a lot; if he had asked, I probably would have given permission, and contacting me is easy. My mailto link is on every page of my website.) What bothers me is “Source staff”, last time I checked, was a job description, kind of like “staff reporter”. Which means that in all likelihood, he got a paycheck for the review, a significant part of which I wrote. Call me wacky, but I feel that if anyone should get paid for my work, it should be me.

Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I plan on emailing the editor of the St. Thomas Source to inform him that whoever “Source staff” is, they are guilty of plagiarism, as they have falsely misrepresented another’s work as their own and have profited by it. He did mention the “essay” at Hill TV, but said it was written by the playwright, which is not only completely wrong, it displays a level of irresponsibility and amateurism shocking in a newspaper, even a small one (especially a newspaper who calls itself ‘The Source’). Hopefully even small newspapers have a zero-tolerance policy on that. I don’t expect any financial reimbursement. I just want them to be aware of it.

Second, “Source staff” has ensured that I will never, as I had previously planned, publish one word of my fiction online. I refer to my serious writing endeavors. I will still, from time to time, publish various Tales of the WoW on the Wand of Wonder, so don’t fret. But if I put my heart and soul into a story only to have it stolen and posted as someone else’s, I’ll turn into the Hulk, and I’m already angry enough.

One more thing. I only got through about one-third of my web pages before Copyscape wouldn’t let me search anymore. They limit you to ten searches per domain per month, unless you pay for more. I didn’t search for any of my blogposts. I’m not even sure how to do that, since my blog is still hosted by Blogger. I didn’t get through all my Book Reviews, and I didn’t even start searching for my Angry Rants. But I will.

I wonder how much more of my stuff—and yours—is out there.

It's Always Hump Day for Tainted-Love

Just before the Garden of Eden officially opened for business, God approached Adam and Eve.
"Hey guys", said God, "I'm about to light the fuse on this whole Creation thing, and I just have a few details to iron out with you two regarding men and women."
"Shoot," said Eve.
"Yeah, go ahead,"said Adam.
"Well," said God, "here's the thing. I've been thinking about it, and I've come up with this: there should be some key differences between the two of you, otherwise I should have just made one, know what I mean?"
"Sounds reasonable," said Adam.
"Sure does," said Eve.
"OK, so I've come up with a list here. Who wants to be stronger?"
"I'll be stronger," said Adam.
"Fine with me," said Eve.
"OK," said God, crossing 'strength' off his list "who wants to be able to bear children?"
"I want that, too," said Adam.
"Hey-that's not fair!" said Eve.
"She's right," God said, crossing 'childbearing' off his list. "You got one, so she gets one. It's only fair."
"Whatever," said Adam, sullenly.
"OK, which one wants the ability to pee standing up?" God asked.
"Oooooh!!! Mememememe!!!!!" Adam raised his hand and jumped up and down. Eve rolled her eyes.
"OK, it's all yours," God said, crossing off 'pee standing up' from his list.
"Ha!" Adam said to Eve. "Do you know how cool this is gonna be? I can pee anywhere I want. I don't have to worry about ever finding a bathroom. It's gonna be awesome! I rule! You suck!!!"
"OK, Eve," said God, checking off the last item on his list. "That leaves 'multiple orgasms' to you."

Thanks to Preposterous Ponderings!

Who is that?
Well it seem PrePon was quick and caught our old Angry Piper at his weird Star Wars Convention for Anme Fairymen. Check this pic she sent me!

So, now we know where he goes on the weekend.

I am Malach exposing all the WoWees!

MySpace Bulletin

Currently my blog is a running chronicle of my trip to Ireland, so I couldn't post this there. I received this as a bulletin on MySpace. I have never sent out a bulletin since I got my MySpace account( I see no reason why people I don't know should receive my junk mail), but this one made me laugh a little, so I'm posting it here.

It's title: Can you answer 51 questions about the 1st person on your top friends list?

1) What's their first name?
Malach.
(He can tell you his name if he wants.)

2) Does he or she have a boyfriend/girlfriend?
He has a lovely wife.

3) Are they male of female?
Malach is male. His wife is female.

4) How old is the person?
35

5) have they ever cooked for you?
Not unless you count warming up pizza or opening a bag of chips cooking.

6) Is this person older than you?
yes

8) When was the last time you thought about them?
Every time he sends me something stupid. In other words, about 2 minutes ago.

9) Are you related to this person?
No

10) Are you really close to him/her?
We're good friends.

11.Nickname?
Douchebag. Asshole. Whatever insult comes to mind. Most recently "Sugar Balls."He goes by Malach online.

13) How many times do you talk to this person in a week?
Once on average.

14) Do you think they will repost this?
Maybe if he's desperate for something to post.

15) Could you live with this person?
Oh, hell no.

16) Why is this person your number 1?
Because he was the first friend I had other than Tom on MySpace.

17) Have you seen this person cry?
I think so. Maybe.

18) How long have you known this person?
20+ years

19) Have you ever been to the mall with this person?
Yes. And a fun time it was, too. We got our picture taken with Santa!

20) Have you ever had a sleepover with this person?
Yes. But not in a gay kind of way. In a we've roleplayed until 3 am kind of way.

21) If you ever moved away would you miss this person?
Sure. Like the deserts miss the rain.

22) Have you ever given this person something?
Yes.

23) Have you ever done something really stupid or illegal with this person?
Yes.

24) Do you know everything about this person?
I doubt it.

25) Would you date this person's siblings?
No. Dr. Murk is married too.

26) Does this person have you as their #1?
No. He clearly doesn't love me as much as I love him.

27) Have you ever made something with this person?
A 4-foot-tall penis made of snow, among other things.

28) Have you and your #1 fought before?
Argued? Sure. Many times.

29) Have you gone skinny dipping with this person?
For Christ's sake. No.

32) Do you know this person's shoe size?
Not offhand. I would guess 11.

33) Have you ever worn this person's clothes?
I may have tried on a hat.

34) Have you and your #1 person made up a hand shake?
No. Do people do this?

35) If it was "freaky friday" would you switch bodies with this person?
This question is so gay. No.

36) Has this person ever seen you dance?
Yes.

37) Have you ever heard this person sing?
Yes.

38) Do you and this person have a saying?
Many. "More coal, please." There's one.

39) Do you know this persons myspace password?
No. And if I did, I wouldn't post it. (Best guess: "Ilovecock.")

40) Do you know this persons best friend?
I would bet money on it.

41) Have you and this person ever gotten into a fight that lasted more than 2 months?
No, but we were out of touch for a while. Not because we were fighting. We were just lazy.

42) Does this person cry a lot?
Not that I'm aware of. If he does, he's a fairy.

44.) Have u and this person gone clubbing?
We clubbed some mailboxes once.

45) Do you know how to make this person feel happy?
I can make him laugh, if that's what you mean.

46)Do you and this person talk alot?
We're in regular contact.

47) Have you licked this person?
Oh. God. Oh God no. Sweet, merciful crap, no.

48) Has this person yelled at you?
Sure. I even deserved it most of the time.

49) Have you and this person got into a fist fight?
No. But if we did I would totally KICK HIS ASS.

50) Do you love this person?
In a we've been friends for over twenty years and I hope he doesn't die kind of way.

51) Do you want to be friends with them forever?
Boy, Do I!!!!!

Videos of the Piper's Vacation in Ireland

Another Malach exclusive.
Yeah, the Piper said he was going with his brother and old man, but you and I both know that was just a code phrase. It was really him and Hobbs, frolicing in the Irish countryside, and this video proves it.

I am Malach and I got a harem and I don't share'em

Dr. Mantodea is a Book-Thievin' Sonofabitch!

In other news, I'm back from Ireland.
Look for updates soon on my blog. I'll have lots to say.

And you thought they were missing, dead, or didn't care

A new Piper/Hobbs video.
This was sent to me by anonymous, and postmarked Attleboro, MA. It is Hobbs and the Piper once again.

Evidently they just needed some private time

I am Malach, and get your poke on.

Pipe Down!

You want to know where I've been lately? Read my blog. I don't feel like posting it again.

That is all.

It's all true

The Angry Piper is missing?

And Malach has this exclusive photo. After all the conjecture . . . we present.

I am Malach, a mandated reporter.

Harry Potter exposed to Piper's Kilt

Yes, the awful power of Lord Voldemort is nothing compared to the grotesque wonder to be seen when the wind lifts the kilt of the absent minded Angry Piper.

Let the image twist in the nightmares of each futile attempt at nightly slumber, young wizard.

You are undone!

The greatest irony? The Piper was waiting in line with hundreds of other J.K. Rowling fans when the terrible vision was created.

Sad News About the Angry Piper.

It has come to my attention that the Piper has been involved in a terrible shaving/masturbation accident that has resulted in all of his fingers and penis being cut off. Sadly, due to the very cheap health care plan that he was forced to sign up for under the new Mass Healthcare law, he was required to go to a New Bedford hospital to get them reattached. The doctors there accidentally mixed up the appropriate locations for all eleven digits during the operation.

Since his recovery, no one has been able to persuade him to come out of his room and actually start posting something on his website again because he is too busy obsessively sucking his new "thumb".

Our thoughts and prayers are with him, and we hope he overcomes his latest tribulation and pulls himself together to actually do something with his life again.

Hopefully, the Astroglide I poured all over the new vibrating keyboard I bought for him will make the transition easier.

We can only hope.

Revealed!

The Real Hojo!!

Tales of the WoW: Escape from the Brown Bowler

by Christopher Morris:

Where have I been? Where have I been?

I awoke in a dimly lit, smokey chamber with the smell of ether still clinging to the hairs of my nostrils. Fuck. Never sleep! Never SLEEP! I had slipped up again. When you sleep, he sends his hatchlings for you.

My head swam in the sickening afterglow of the crude anesthetic, no doubt administered by the "Good Doctor" himself. Jumble vision flipped itself rightways, then askew, then aright and blurred edges gave way to ultra sharp, psycho-delic vision. Of course. Two drugs. One to keep me sleeping, one to cloud the depth of my mind. I saw him. I saw The Piper standing behind him. He'd promised me revenge.

I'd accidentally ordered a few men to beat him to death. Such a thing is possible. The Piper, louse that he is, had removed the body and... well, no one was sure. There were rumors. Someone had started a new blog, but come on, now! He was dead. I saw him dead on his own floor.

Mistakes. I've made a few. Living in his house after killing him was one. I should have reasoned that on the off chance he did survive, the last place I'd want to be when he was ambulatory was in his lair. Fucking den of sin and surprise that it is. Now he had me and he had The Piper. One part of the story was solid. This was Murk. I could smell him. Even through the dual action of ether and LSD I could smell him. This was no phantom, no charade, no trick.

Why the hell are you wearing that turban?

"Simple," Dr. Murk replied. "A safe place is necessary. Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs. Food, Safety and Shelter are the base of the pyramid. So, I found someplace safe and I took you there. Well, actually, I can't walk very well... yet, so Piper brought you here."

Where is here? Araby?

His laghter was like the sound of large icicles falling in staccato.

"No, you ass," he laughed again. He nudged The Piper and The Piper laughed too, but not nearly as heartily. Something always creeped me out about The Piper. Something about that hollow baritone and those dead, souless fish eyes made me wary. "I'll give you a hint..."

"... after I torture you a bit."

Mistakes. Like forgetting to eliminate his seat of power, the Queen of the Widow Spiders: Mrs. Dr. Murk. She appeared from her usual nowhere, bearing an elegant woman's shoe in one hand and a scorpion in the other. The shoe was rather large for her but, oh... oh no... Scorpion goes in shoe, shoe goes on my foot, blah blah blah.

Next thing I know, I'm wearing a Spiderman mask and eight fists are pummeling me at once.

"This is the coolest thing I've ever seen," I heard The Piper mumble.

"Silence," Murk hissed, "Let my colleague concentrate on my dear brother's face. DR. OCTOPUS! CONTINUE TO OPERATE!"

I black out after five minutes.

Mistakes. I should have blacked out quicker.

"Brother?" I hear his voice. "Oh brooottthhhhhherrrrrrrr?"

Correction: I should have not blacked out at all. Maybe old Doc Oc would have pummelled me to death. Wait! That was it! We drugged him, beat him to death and then...

"Well, it's been fun," Murk said. I could only see him as a squiggle between the slits of my broken eye sockets. "Piper, chase him to the door."

"Wait! You said you'd tell me where we are!" I needed to warn everyone. I needed to round up a posse and take him down. "Hey," I said, "Isn't every Supervillain supposed to reveal his secret plan when you ask him? That's like Supervillain 101."

Murk stopped The Piper before he leapt from his 'Crouching Ninja' stance (complete aside here, but The Piper does it so that you see his gonads. I know he does this on purpose. He has to. What certified Ninja would Sharon Stone you by accident every time he attacked?).

"Villain?" Murk gasped. He could fake being hurt like that. Jerk-off. "Piper, Piper Piper?"

"Yes, m'Lawd?" Piper boomed.

"Have I killed anyone?" Murk asked plaintively.

"Naught in weeks, m"lawd." Piper ansered.

"Villian. I abhor this. Fine, I'll tell you if you take that villain crap back." Murk said.

"No," I said defiantly.

"He took it back, m'Lawd." Piper pronounced proudly.

"No I didn't!" I yelled.

"In denial again, m'Lawd." Piper grinned.

"In denial indeed," Murk matched him grin for grin. "The answer is: I'm wearing a turban because my Bowler can't be in two places at once. Now, get out." Piper sprang, and this time with no warning. I ran like hell through mazes the likes of which even King Minas would have nightmares about. The whole while Piper was trying to urinate on me while running after me, heedless of his own backsplash.

I finally found my way out and was on the brim of an enourmous Brown Bowler Hat. "Oh my God!" I screamed as I looked down. They'd burried him upright. Before I could wonder about all of this, one of the gigantic eyes opened and looked directly at me. I stopped still, afright.

The smell of ether and Piper's rotten, stale ale breath.

I awoke in the basement of the Palatial Murk Estates. Alone.

Beware!

Beware!

BEWARE!!!!!

What Really Happened: A Tale of the WoW

Last week I was in a local Starbuck’s, waiting in line for a ridiculously overpriced coffee. I really hate Starbuck’s, partially because their coffee tastes like three hundred year-old skunk taint, partially because they charge you an arm and a leg for their shitty coffee, and partially because pretentious Bohemian fucks like to sit in there all day drinking said coffee while reading Nietszche, chatting on their cell phones and writing plays that will never get produced. Plus, they all stare at me in my kilt.
Anyway, I was standing in line, admiring the badonkadonk ass of the size 18 “Vampira” goth chick in front of me, when all of a sudden, I heard a voice from beyond the grave:
“How difficult is it to get a godforsaken cup of coffee the way I ordered it, you ignorant cow?!! I said two—TWO—sugars. That means two teaspoons of sugar, not two bags of sugar. Do it again!” There followed the unmistakable sound of a cup of coffee being violently hurled, followed by a shriek from the counter girl.
I craned my neck around the woman in front of me, straining to see who could be the source of such a venomous diatribe. A man stood at the counter, all but hidden behind the several other patrons of the coffee shop that had arrived before me. I could only see the back of his head, but upon that head sat a very familiar bowler hat.
Surely, it couldn’t be!
I watched him for several minutes, watched as the hapless Starbuck’s counter girl was forced to make and re-make his coffee while enduring insults to her intelligence, body type, gender and breeding, until she could take it no longer. She fled, crying, with discarded coffee flowing from her apron and hair like rain. A new member of the counter staff fearfully made the customer a new cup to his specifications. At long last the customer took a sip of his coffee and did not return it as a projectile.
“Better,” he said. Then he turned around, and our eyes met.
“Ah, Piper,” said Dr. Murk, for it was unmistakably he, “How’s it hangin’, brother?”
“Murk!” I exclaimed.
“Keep it down, you insufferable poltroon. Can’t you see I’m trying to maintain a low profile?”
Murk wore a white T-shirt with the words “HERE'S THE BEEF” printed upon it in block letters. A large arrow pointed downward, indicating “The Beef” was located in his shorts, which were festooned with a garish Hawaiian print. A pair of orange crocs and argyle knee socks completed his outfit.
“But…you’re dead!” I said.
Murk didn’t bother to dignify my statement with a response. He brought his coffee cup to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Fresh-brewed java. It arouses me like nothing else, save the jasmine scent of my wife’s hair.”
“Is she here?” I looked around fearfully.
“Thankfully, no," Murk replied. "Christ, but that bitch gets on my nerves sometimes. Now, come, let’s sit down before you embarrass yourself further. Over here should suffice.”
We moved go to a nearby high table, where moments before a skinny, bespectacled über-geek sat typing on a small laptop. The laptop was still there, but its owner had stepped outside, where he was loudly chatting on a cell phone, hoping others would notice how important he was. Murk reached out and gave the laptop a shove. It shattered on the floor with a resounding crash. He sat down and watched me awkwardly mount the tall chair in my kilt, an expression of wry amusement on his face.
“You have to tell me what happened,” I whispered harshly. “Everyone thinks you’re dead!”
“Stop whispering harshly,” said Murk. “We’re in a Starbuck’s. Everyone in here is busy trying desperately to be more tragically hip than everyone else. There’s enough Emo angst floating around in this pathetic commercial shitpile to cover whatever we say, even if our conversation were audible above this horrendous Norah Jones CD.”
“Fine. What happened?”
Dr. Murk tore open a packet of “Sugar in the Raw” and poured it into his mouth. He sucked the sugar for several seconds before answering me.
“All right, Piper, it was like this: after the ambush at the WoW, I realized the bullet that was meant for me hit Cyrus instead. When he went down, I knew I was going to be blamed for it, so I fled and went underground. I knew I would be safe if I could just make it back to Coney.”
My eyes narrowed. Murk continued: “It was rough going for a while, even with Swan as War Chief after Cleon got aced; first Ajax got pinched, then The Lizzies almost took my nuts off, then I had to hide from the Turnbull ACs—and all the while, the lights of the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island were like a beacon promising salvation, if only I could get there—“
“For fuck’s sake!” I blurted. “That’s The Warriors, Murk!”
“The what, now?”
“The Warriors. You know, ‘Warriors, come out to playeee’. The fucking Warriors, Murk— a classic gang film from 1979!”
“Never heard of it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I decided to lay low for a while. Closed up the palatial estate, signed the S. S. Murk-errific over to that costumed fool the Angry Veteran, dismissed the Barrys; gave up all the trappings of wealth.”
“What about Mrs. Dr. Murk?” I asked.“You mean you abandoned her, too?
“Hell, no. Her I kept. I mean, the things she does to me in bed are absolutely incredible.”
“That’s great, Murk,” I said, hoping not to hear more.
“Her carnal skills and sexual appetites are legendary.”
“Swell,” I said.
“She does this thing with some rubber tubing and a yak pelt that’s just—“
“Yeah, ok. I get it.”
“And when she puts on the SCUBA gear—“
“Christ, Murk! I said I get it! Spare me the sordid tales of your sexcapades!”
Murk poured more sugar into his mouth, sucking noisily. He stared at me in silence.
“My dick is bigger than yours, you know,” he said at last.
I sighed. “So, how long is this “laying low” bullshit going to go on?”
“Until I’m ready to return. Speaking of which, here comes our table’s previous occupant.”
Our ponytailed predecessor came over to the table, took one look at his destroyed computer and screamed. “My laptop!” he wailed. “What the hell did you do to it?”
“It fell,” replied Murk. “Sorry about that.”
“You assholes! All my work is ruined! My novel is destroyed!”
“Let me guess,” said Murk, “you come here to this public venue to toil away on your “novel”, because there are too many distractions in your parents’ basement, where you live.”
“How did you—“
“It’s a work-in-progress of “erotic horror”, in which vampire women, bondage and nuns feature prominently; no doubt the same puerile fantasies that fuel the frantic masturbatory urgings of your flaccid member while you sit upon your toilet, dreading the inevitable jiggle of the doorknob that heralds your mother’s untimely entrance into the bathroom.”
“You can’t know—“
“Oh, please,” Murk continued. “I can see your pathetic life laid out like a road map. You’ve seen Star Wars more than thirty times. Your favorite “author” is Anne Rice. You bought prosthetic fangs, but stopped wearing them because you once bit through your lip by accident. You own at least one replica sword and at least one pair of leather pants. And I would say it’s been no more than six hours since your last foray into the World of Warcraft, where your online girlfriend (at least you hope it’s a girl) meets you every night for awkward and frequently-misspelled cybersex.”
The man’s lip quivered. He burst into loud, wracking sobs and ran out of the store, leaving the remnants of his laptop behind.
Murk smiled. “Looks like it’s turning out to be a good day after all. As for me, don’t worry, Piper. I’ll be around. I am forever the gadfly, the mosquito in your tent that you just can’t kill. I am Prometheus; I brought fire to the losers over at the WoW, and now my liver is torn out daily by vultures, only to regenerate before the next dawn.”
“I don’t think that last analogy really works well," I said.
“Silence!” said Murk. “Where would the WoW be without me? I provoke responses; I urge people to action. Like so.”
Murk reached over the table and emptied his still-very-hot coffee into my lap. I screamed in pain and leapt up from the table. “What the fuck?!!”
“See? I wanted you gone, and now you have vacated your chair.”
“Jesus, this hurts!”
“Yes, I imagine so. Well, I must be running along. Don’t tell anyone I’m alive, now. It’d ruin the surprise.”
I told him I wouldn’t.

Dear Malach...

Mal, my old friend, you and I have known each other a long time in every way but the Biblical sense. You are truly one of my best friends. And as such, I feel I can speak to you in a direct and no-nonsense manner that will efficiently convey my feelings to you with no dissembling whatsoever.

I hate your irritating habit of adding music to webpages. I fucking hate it. And every time I visit a fucking web page awash with the fetid stench your music-blasting spoor, I begin to hate you.
Yes, I know it is a small matter to simply hit the stop button on my browser to cease your embedded music files from polluting my ears, but in some cases it is not enough.

For example-- Take the post below me: one of your witty YouTube findings you wish to share with us. Jesus Christ: the Musical. At first glance, it would seem to be something funny,as blasphemy is always funny. Well, maybe not to Toyi, but to the rest of us it is. So I clicked it. And while it loaded, I found myself not laughing, but gritting my teeth in rage as I could not determine whether Jesus was dancing and singing to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" or Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On", as both were playing at the same fucking time.

So, I did what anyone who was annoyed would do. I swore. Then I clicked my stop button, but the Son of Man continued to cavort and prance to a maddening mishmash of musical merde, a Zeppelin/Gaynor cacophony which they must surely play in the 9th circle of Hell. If the demon sultan Azathoth writhes blindly to the horrid music of the spheres, that's the stuff he has on his IPod.

By now I was beyond pissed off. I was ignoring Christ's revelry, desperately clicking my stop button, to no avail. And then I found the source of the music, this post of yours. Why, Malach, do you subject us all to your (admittedly varied and unique) taste in music? Make it interactive. As in those people who want to listen can click on it. Don't make us all listen to it, especially when there's much better content available, like Jesus Christ: the Musical. Which I found hilarious, once I realized he was singing "I Will Survive."

Don't make me kill you.

Obsession

As many of you know, I entered the world of straight razor shaving about two months ago. You can read about it on my blog, if you're so inclined. But what began as an interest has now become an obsession.

The top razor is my Dovo, my current shaving razor. The bottom three are my latest acquisitions. The first is a Wade & Butcher 6/8” spike point, which I found at a yard sale for $5.00, cleaned up with Maas metal polish, and plan on honing to perfection as soon as I get a stone. It’s pretty sharp already, but not ready to caress my cheek just yet. Plus, it needs to be sanitized. I imagine this will tell me how it feels to shave with an axe.

The next one down is another Wade & Butcher, the same size as my Dovo, 5/8”. This one cost me $20.00 at a local antiques shop. The blade needs to be polished, obviously, and although it’s sharp, the jeweler’s loupe I bought (yes, I bought a jeweler’s loupe for exactly this reason) reveals it to have a few nicks in the blade that will have to be ground out on the stone before it gets anywhere near my face. Good thing I'm buying my honing stone tomorrow.

Last but not least, I bought the bottom one at another antiques shop for $35.00. It’s from the HMC Cutlery Company of New Bedford, Massachusetts, which is pretty local to me. Despite this, I never heard of HMC Cutlery, so before I bought the razor I took my question to the forums. I was told HMC razors hone up real nice and are good shavers, but not much is known about the company. This razor dates from the 1940’s or so. Because of the local collectibility, I felt like I should buy it. It’s thinner than my Dovo, probably ½” or 3/8”, so shaving with it is going to be precise.




Shaving now takes me half an hour to 45 minutes, as opposed to when I could do a lap on my face with the Mach 3 in about one-tenth the time. It’s quite relaxing. But for the occasions when I just don’t have the time for a proper straight razor shave, I bought these babies. The first is a Vintage Gem Single Edge. It shaves ok. The second is a Gillette Doube-Edge. I shaved with it this morning, and it shaves so smooth I couldn't feel the friction on my face. Which is kinda scary, actually, when you think about it.

Tomorrow I get my Norton 4000/8000 grit stone, after which I plan on honing my straights to vorpal-weapon sharpness.

More Secret Films of WoWees

More of the Angry Piper and Hobbs von Wackamole
Many of you know, after the Piper and Hobbs ended there 15 year homoerotic relationship, they became sworn enemies. Well the other night, they met in secret to see who was the most powerful. Malach snuck in and took this film of their titanic meeting.

I am Malach and that looked painful

Why I Live in New England

Don’t think The Angry Piper can cook? Well, you’re wrong. I’m about to bust out one of my all-time favorite recipes for summer. I made it last night, in fact.

We’re spoiled here in New England. We have the best seafood in the country, hands-down. Sure—you folks in the Pacific Northwest have your geoducks, your Alaskan king crab and your salmon. You folks on the Gulf Coast have your grouper, shrimp and crawfish. Doesn’t matter. New England is the place to be if you want really great seafood. Our fish form the elite snobbery of the culinary world.

You still arguing? Two words for you, snapperhead: “Maine Lobster”. Bam!

Now, I’m really spoiled, because not only do I live in New England, I happen to live next to the biggest commercial fishing port in the United States. Growing up, I was half-jokingly referred to as “The Seagull” by my father; because like my namesake, I would descend upon any tasty seafood and devour it noisily, as well as aggressively defend my prize against any and all who would seek to share. (Of course, seagulls will eat pretty much anything, so it wasn’t really a flattering or cool name, but whatever.) In fact, there are only two things in the entire ocean I do not care for: octopus and oysters. Octopus is a popular dish in the mostly Portuguese community where I live; yet despite having eaten it many different ways I just can’t like it. It’s a texture thing. Oysters, to me, taste and look and feel like snot. I had my first oyster in an outdoor café in Paris, while gazing at the Eiffel Tower at night. It was a Hemingway moment—until I gagged and hawked that vile oyster onto the sidewalk, much to the disgust and chagrin of the (predominantly French) café patrons.

But on to the recipe, which requires another kind of shellfish: the lowly mussel.

I love mussels. They’re plentiful year-round, cheap as hell, and quick and easy to cook. And they taste awesome, especially if you follow the recipe below. I know about 10 different ways to make mussels, but this recipe is my favorite.

Start with two lbs. of mussels. Although that sounds like a lot, remember most of the mussels’ weight is in their shells, which you don’t eat. I prefer Prince Edward Island mussels, if available, because they’re smaller and more flavorful, but any mussels will do. The mussels should smell faintly of the ocean. Don’t be a choad and buy mussels that are dry and stink like the docks at low tide.

As any of you who have read my blog know, The Angry Piper hates facial hair, and mussels are no exception. Clean and de-beard the mussels by scrubbing their shells with a stiff brush. Then THROW AWAY any mussels that don’t close when you smack the shells with the back of a knife; these are dead. There are many things you don’t want to get in this life, and trust me, shellfish poisoning is high on the list. Unless, of course, you enjoy uncontrollable vomiting and shitting. Then, by all means, cook and eat the dead ones.

Next, melt half a stick of butter in a stock pot or deep saucepan that’s large enough to accommodate all your mussels. Sauté at least 6 cloves of freshly-chopped garlic (I use more), until it’s soft. Next, add 1 cup of cherry tomatoes, sliced in half, and one bell pepper, also finely sliced, and cook for 2 minutes or so. Add 1 tsp. of garlic powder, 1 tsp. of dried red pepper flakes, and 1 Tbsp. of pepper juice (skim the top liquid of a jar of crushed red pepper). Stir well, and cook until the pan is very hot (about 1-2 minutes).

Next, add your mussels and give them a good stir to coat them with the sauce. Cover and simmer for about 3-4 minutes, until the shells open. Then add ½ cup or so of good white wine—don’t be a loser and use shitty supermarket cooking wine or your mussels will taste like it. Make sure you wait until the shells open so the mussels best take the flavor of the wine. Stir them again and cover, cooking them for another 2 minutes or so until they’re falling out of their shells.

To serve: ladle a generous portion into a bowl and cover with the sauce. Throw out any mussels that didn’t open (see “uncontrollable vomiting and shitting”, above). Serve with crusty bread to mop up all the juices, and compliment the meal with a bottle of the cold, white wine of your choice (I prefer Sauvignon Blanc) or a light beer (like Corona). I’ve been known to put away 2 lbs. of mussels (and a couple of bottles of wine) by myself, so if you have a lot of guests, increase the recipe.

I make this about once a week in the summer. It would be a great dish to make for an outdoor get-together at Dr. Murk’s palatial estate.

Too bad he’s dead.

Adrift: A Tale of the WoW

The scene: an iceberg, roughly 50 ft, in diameter, adrift on a mostly calm ocean. Three women, one man, one man dressed like a woman and a huge insect are the iceberg’s current occupants.

Angry Piper (AP): Well, this sucks.

Just Me (JM): Sure does. How the hell did we get here, anyway?

Tainted-Love (TL): Beats me. One minute I was making a list of all the reasons I hate mustard, and the next: Poof! Here we are.

Toyita (T): Eet ees horrible. Nothing to see for miles and miles. Hold me, Senhor Piper.

AP: Sure, babe.

Malach (M): I’ll tell you why we’re here. It’s because we’re the only ones who post to the WoW anymore. Everyone else reads but rarely posts. (Speaking of reading, read Fat Bug.)

Dr. Mantodea (DM): How the fuck does that get us on an iceberg in the middle of nowhere?

M: Well, you see…the way I figure it, the iceberg is one of those metaphor things…

TL: Huh?

M: You know…the iceberg is the WoW. And we’re the only thing keeping it afloat. (Read Jesusman!)

DM: (Gestures towards the Angry Piper) You telling me that fat piece of shit is actually helping us stay above the water? Not likely, assbag.

M: You’re quite hostile.

DM: Fuck you. This is just about the worst day of my life, aside from the whole turning into a bug thing. Me, stuck on an iceberg with you five douche-nozzles. Maybe I should just drown myself.

AP: Sounds like a plan, bug-boy. Let me help.

JM: Wait, guys…don’t you think we should be trying to find a way off this iceberg, instead of getting into a dick-waving contest?

TL: Actually, I’d watch a dick-waving contest…

AP: At least I still have a dick. The bug has been sexless for years.

T: Let’s hold hands. I say we pray. God will help us.

DM: Congratulations, Toyi. You’ve just guaranteed you’ll be the first person I’m going to kill and eat.

M: I think we’re stuck here until more people post regularly.

AP: Then…uh…maybe we should start, you know…pairing off.

T: Pairing off?

AP: You know…finding mates. Three girls…three…uh…make that two guys and a freak of nature.

DM: Fuck you.

M: I can’t have sex with anyone else. My wife will absolutely kill me for even considering it.

DM: OK. Who wants me, then? I’m not fussy.

T: …

JM: …

TL: …

DM: That’s just great. Screw you all.

AP: You can’t blame them. What do they have to look forward to? Revolting sex that ends with you eating their heads. And did I fail to mention you have no dick?

DM: (To JM and TL) I hope you get Hepatitis and die. Piper has it, you know.

AP: I do not! You’re just pissed off because I get three hot ladies all to myself.

JM: Umm…actually… (looks at TL)

TL: We’re way more into each other.

AP: Figures. I guess it’s for the best. I can only disappoint one woman at a time.

T: And that woman ees me! Arrrrrriba!!!

M: I wish I could sit down, but my bum will stick to the ice.

DM: Serves you right for wearing those assless chaps. And you call me the freak of nature. Put some fucking pants on.

M: NEVER!

TL: Wait…is that a boat???

JM: Oh, my goddess! It IS!

T: Eet ees huge! Like the Piper’s manly parts!

DM: Oh, for fuck’s sake.

AP: Jealousy is an ugly thing, Mantis.

DM: So’s your mother.

M: It’s coming this way!

TL: Is that…

JM: Can it be???

M: It’s the S.S. Murk-errific!!!

DM: But Dr. Murk is dead…isn’t he?

A large harpoon thunks into the ice, dragging the iceberg towards the colossal ship. Suddenly, a brightly-colored figure appears over the rail of the boat, brandishing a star-spangled shield.

Angry Veteran (AV): Ahoy there!!!

M: It’s the Angry Veteran! We’re rescued!

DM: Thank Christ. This was already getting old.

JM: How did you get this swell boat, AV?

AV: Murk willed it to me. It’s mine now. I’d change the name to the S.S. Family Values, but it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat.

TL: With Murk dead, guess you’re out of a job, huh?

AV: Not exactly…

DM: Fascinating. Can we get the fuck out of here now?

AV: Sure. Climb aboard, all.

They all scramble up the ladder. The Angry Piper is last. Some might think this is for chivalry’s sake, but in truth he was hoping to see up the girls’ skirts. Instead, he comes face-to-face with the Angry Veteran at the top of the ladder.

AV: Sorry. Boat’s full.

AP: What? Stop screwing around. It’s a huge boat.

AV: Right. You can’t come on. Murk wouldn’t have wanted it.

AP: Murk’s dead. Now let me on!

AV: No. Besides, I work for someone else now, and he doesn’t want you aboard either.

AP: Get the fuck out of my way or so help me…

The Angry Veteran slams his star-spangled shield into the Angry Piper’s face, dislodging him from the ladder. He falls 30 feet, landing on the hard ice below sprawled in his kilt, his dangly unmentionables in full view.

AP: Ouch.

DM: Wow. He is huge.

AV: Hey Piper!! My new boss, Hobbs von Wackamole, sends his love and says, and I quote: “I’m back, bitch!” I’m also supposed to give you something. Wait a sec!

The Angry Veteran disappears below decks, returning after a few minutes holding a box at arms length. He drops the box overboard, where it shatters on the ice, dislodging a very irate skunk.

AV: Have fun making friends! AV...out!

Why I Love Zombies

Because they kick ass.

Can You Believe They Cut This From Episode III?

Once Upon a Time...

before he would become the Angry Veteran, the Angry Veteran was riding his bicycle on a warm summer day, a beatific look on his hairless adolescent face. "Tra-la-la," sang the Angry Veteran, "tra-la-la-la-lee." Smiling benignly, the Angry Veteran approached an intersection and signalled a left turn. The Angry Veteran was always careful to use hand signals, as he was taught "safety first!".

Heedless of the Angry Veteran's signal, a large, black Cadillac hurtled through the intersection and collided with the Angry Veteran just as he was making his turn. It turned his bike into a twisted metal pretzel and sent the Angry Veteran hurtling through the air, where he would come to rest against a very hard stone curb. His beatific smile vanished, and his leg was broken so badly it left him with an unsightly scar he bears to this very day.

The car door opened and a man stepped out. "What did you do to my car?!!!" screamed the driver of the Cadillac, a rotund, heavily-accented Portuguese man indifferent to the bleeding Angry Veteran on the side of the road.

And do you know what happened next?

The Angry Veteran killed that man.

Syphilis

Dr. Murk's got it.

Have you?