I Order The Supplies In My Office, And I Am Drunk With Power (Slackjaw Humor Challenge Finalist)

I Order The Supplies In My Office, And I Am Drunk With Power (Slackjaw Humor Challenge Finalist)

There are those out there who would call me mad, insane, psychotic; but I am none of those. Instead, I have merely succumbed to the weight of my responsibility, the thrill of the chase, the ecstasy of my own dominion. I order the supplies for my office, and I am drunk with power.

When first presented with this Herculean burden, my naivete bested my rationale. Surely it would be easy, I thought, to govern myself according to any earthly system of morality whilst maintaining a godlike sway over those around me. While it was in my authority to order David’s non-caffeinated passion berry tea or Karen’s special staples that look like they have cat ears, I vowed to never let that corrupt me. Looking back, my blind faith brings me to tears.

My descent was slow, incremental, almost imperceptible to those around me. It began, as most downward spirals do, with ballpoint pens. See, many of my colleagues seem to prefer capped pens over clicky pens. It’s hard to fault them for their ignorance, their blindness to the inherent wastefulness of capped pens, how the caps get lost and the pens dry out, or how they mix and match pen caps until the pens look like little people forced to wear hats.

So when Jared asked if I could order some capped pens, the “ones with the padded grip that make[s] it easier on [his] arthritis,” I seized an opportunity. In that moment I decided that I would not order Jared’s space hogging, ghastly, boorish, capped pens, and instead ordered my preferred sleek, smooth, clicky pens with the pleasing design. And if Jared had a problem with it, he could get fucked in hell.

From there, my impulses only intensified. I ordered my favorite coffee, Pumpkin Berry Decaf, much to the chagrin of my co-workers. I found the color of the tissues offensive, so I ordered ones with a nice herringbone pattern. The cups in the breakroom made my hands look Italian, so I ordered more flattering ones. As God of the office,there was nothing I wouldn’t recreate in my image.

Eventually, my hubris ate away at me. I had lost touch with humanity, and with my co-workers. Gone were the perfunctory chats about Game Of Thrones in the breakroom, replaced instead by the steely stares of resentful souls whose only wish was that I’d supply them with unflavored scotch tape. No one would even acknowledge the weather to me.

I became isolated, alone, and indignant. I lashed out. I was intent on destroying my empire, and vowed to punish my followers for forsaking me. That was when the sweetener war happened. My acolytes believed they could overthrow me by placing their own orders through our online retailer. But I changed the password, I cut off their supply line. Then I struck. I ordered only stevia in the raw. The heretics would be forced to either bend to my will, or drink unsweetened Keurig coffee. But instead of crumbling underneath my decree, they remained resilient. They rallied their spirits and simply visited a local coffee shop instead. From that day forward, no one would say hi to me at my desk. I was forgotten, forsaken, a god in which no one believed.

I hope that whoever finds this learns from my mistakes. As I sit writing this from behind a wall of pink side perforated dot matrix printer paper, single serving caramel creamers, and staple removers, I wish I had not let my pride obscure my judgement as these roughly seven thousand conical paper cups now obscure the sunlight. Do not remember me as I am now, as what I have become. Instead, remember me as I once was; an underpaid administrative assistant secretly watching porn on his work computer.

We Look Back on Pretending to Like Kid-A (via The Hard Times)

We Look Back on Pretending to Like Kid-A (via The Hard Times)

Here at the Hard Times, we like to revisit albums that we are required to revere. Many of these works have forever changed the way we, both as a culture and as individuals, discuss music. That’s why today we’re looking back on pretending to like Radiohead’s Kid A.

Released in 2000, Kid A marked a radical change for Britain’s whine-rock group Radiohead (stylized in England as RadioueHeade). Gone were the familiar elements such as guitars, replaced instead with blocky synthesizers and what we’ve been told is a saxophone at one point. Foolishly, our initial appraisal was largely negative, as we thought the album sounded like a dial up modem reading poetry.

The public backlash was almost immediate. Our colleagues, our peers, our friends, all chastised us for our lack of musical acumen. Naturally, we started claiming that we had to “let it grow on us after a few listens,” when the truth of the matter was that we hadn’t even listened to it the whole way through the first time. Eventually, we came to say that Kid A was the band’s magnum opus, an adulation we don’t falsify for just any record.

By the turn of the century we were required to embellish our admiration for many albums. We once famously said that My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless was  “the most satisfying auditory experience conceivable.” But Kid A changed the game completely. For the first time we had to praise something that literally you could not actually listen to. We were compelled to use words like “texture” and “atmospheric ambience,” despite not knowing what those words mean in relation to sound.

It wasn’t just us either. Many respected music critics were also pretending to like Kid A. Most publications praised Kid A for fear of not seeming smart enough to understand the album. As a result, Kid A became one of the most universally and unreliably critically acclaimed albums.

At one point considered a classic by everyone we were trying to impress, Kid A has aged poorly in terms of us needing people to think we like it. A retrospective listening proves that it’s a mere shadow of the band’s universally agreed upon masterpiece, Pablo Honey.

Charles Manson Is My Favorite Beach Boy, and Yes, It’s for THAT Reason (from The Hard Times)

Charles Manson Is My Favorite Beach Boy, and Yes, It’s for THAT Reason (from The Hard Times)

The Beach Boys were easily the best ‘60s band out of California to feature people mostly related to each other. In the grand pantheon of surf rock bands, they’re the only one whose name I can remember. Which is why it’s such a shame that they never reached their full potential. That is because my favorite Beach Boy is Charles Manson. And yes, it’s for THAT reason.

For those of you who, like me, haven’t seen “Once Upon a Time In Hollywood,” Charles Manson was a popular Hollywood influencer in the late 1960s. He famously collaborated with Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys before embarking on an incredibly influential, if not brief, solo career.

Manson was a visionary songwriter. His single “Cease To Exist” was famously retooled as the Beach Boys’ “Never Learn Not To Love.” Later on, his catalog would be covered by everyone from Guns N’ Roses, daughter Marilyn Manson, & GG Allin. Add to that Sonic Boom and Crispin Glover and that’s the entire list.

If Brian had rejoined the group during his tenure, a Wilson/Manson songwriting duo could have rivaled the legendary partnerships of Rogers/Hammerstein, Lennon/McCartney, or Hall/Oates.

In 1969, Manson’s career was tragically cut short by murder, specifically, the string of murders he had orchestrated in order to bring about what he saw as an inevitable race war. Most scholars of pop music agree that if Charles Manson hadn’t tragically believed that God showed him how to reach the center of the earth and wanted him and his followers to hide there until black people won the race war and needed help forming a new world government, he would have written some pretty groovy tunes.

It’s such a shame because the Beach Boys, at this time, were going through a period of internal conflict due to Brian Wilson withdrawing from the band. They were in desperate need of a creative leader, and if there was one thing that Charley had, it was a vision. Instead, we had years of plodding leadership from Mike Love, who reduced the band from counter cultural trail blazers to state fair novelty clowns.

In the end, we’ll never truly know how this possible configuration of talent would have actualized. For now, we are simply left with contemplations of a world where Manson/Wilson topped the charts, and Mike Love was murdered.

Eating Out: 7 Understandably Regional Delicacies (from Points In Case)

Eating Out: 7 Understandably Regional Delicacies (from Points In Case)

Every region is famous for its own type of food. Chicago has pizza, Philly has cheese-steaks, New York has pizza. While vacationing, it can be exciting to sample foods not found anywhere else. Here are some of the most interesting local delicacies you deservedly won’t find in any travel guide.

Hawaiian Nachos

Known locally as Inoaia O Ka Ua Kahikoia A Nani, or roughly “Chips of the Dressing,” these are far from your traditional nachos. First off, disregard tortilla chips. These are Plantains fried in SPAM-Back. After that, they’re topped with Pineapple, chunks of SPAM, and drizzled in hog cheese. The dish is typically paired with Hawaii’s beer of choice, Reingold-Warm. If you ask for fresh guacamole, expect a bowl of homemade wintergreen toothpaste. It’s perfect for days when you want to sit back, relax, and enjoy watching a professional sports team from another state.

Moxie Float

Way up in the vast expanses of America’s whitest state, phosphate shops and sodaries carry on the tradition of the nation’s third oldest soda float. Every soda-jerk in Maine is trained to keep to the original process in order to ensure an authentic experience. First, a long stemmed mug is filled with Moxie, Maine’s finest and only soda, straight from the tap which, per regulation, is kept at 76 degrees. Next, a scoop of Rum Raisin or similarly mealy and fruit filled ice cream is placed atop the still fizzing soda to ensure the ice cream is infused with as much runoff carbon as possible. Lastly, the float is topped with squid ink and garnished with a Vienna sausage. With its salty flavor profile and blitzkrieg of textures, this treat is best enjoyed on a sweltering day inside a hot car with the windows up.

Philly Wet Loaf

While the signature sandwich of Philadelphia may be the cheese steak, breakfast in Philly isn’t complete without this staple food. Quite simply, Philly Wet Loaf is a loaf of bread that has gone through a “wetenning” process. Even within the city the preparation of the dish can vary by region. Center City tends to use white bread brined in pickle juice and mayo water. In West Philly, biscuits steeped in badger stock are popular. In Germantown, expect Rold Gold pretzel dust marinated in a Rusty Susan (half Clamato, half Buttermilk) and rolled into one inch balls. Whichever variety you try, pair it with a black coffee and yelling out your window.

Clam’s Delight

Cape Cod is a popular vacation destination owed to its quaint New England atmosphere and fastidiously concealed opiate crisis. This popular street food, a mixture of semi-shelled hot wet clams and bananas, is often served in a bread husk with a side of bacon-vinegar for drenching/slopping. Many vendors claim to have invented the dish, and they all feature slight variations on the recipe. Biff’s Clam Hut in Truro serves the dish wrapped in newspaper, while the popular Cape Cod chain Clammy Davis Junior’s substitutes the bananas for pickled olives. It’s the perfect food to get in touch with your inner Kennedy. Just don’t order it on Chappaquiddick.

La La Lamb

Despite its name, this dish neither originates from Los Angeles, nor contains any lamb. A Louisiana delicacy, La La Lamb is a slow roasted kangaroo over a bed of apple price tag stickers. The name was partially coined by Jessup Beauregard, a self-elected Louisiana politician from the 1910s, who had several dozen kangaroos imported during his time in office. In Beauregard’s words “I’ve worked on farms, and most livestock won’t look you in the eye. These fellars here stand up to greet you, like a Gentleman’s Lamb.” The roasting process can be quite long and arduous, as a roasting pit must be dug to accommodate several tons of hot coals. Some who have ordered the dish have not lived long enough to eat it.


Vermont may be home to the socialist Ben & Jerry’s commune, but it’s also where you can find this northern delicacy. Originally known as “Flopped Cream,” this desert consists of heavy cream kept between room and barn temperature, scooped with a ladle and dolloped into a corn cake cone. One may choose from a wide variety of traditional toppings, such as figs, juniper berries, and corn beef hash. In the 1890s, it was typical for Vermontiers to have Flop Cream following services at Horse-Church. Horse-Church. And while Horse-Church was outlawed many years ago, Flop Cream remains a delicious reminder of a simpler time.

Man Ham

Chicago is famous for its meat dishes, even being referred to by the nickname “Ol’ Meat Bottoms.” If you visit Chicago, you’d be a common fool not to try Man Ham. It sounds like just what it is, ham made out of a man. A long Chicagoan tradition, every year on St. Patrick’s Day dozens of men are whisked away from their families and dumped into the river after it’s been dyed green. They marinate there for up to six weeks, at which point they’re fished out, drained, and rubbed with a spice blend of curry powder, baking soda, and pixie sticks. The Hams are then boil-baked for several hours until the ham can be drank with a straw. It is not uncommon for Man Ham to be served in a mug or glass owned by the Ham while it was alive. Some establishments, like Crumner’s on W. West Street, even serve the Man Ham complete with a full biography of the Ham, as the Hams are often selected from birth. The names of the Hams are etched into the commemorative Wall of Ham, which will continue to grow every year until it seals the city off from the outside world.

Wanna Feel Old? The Stranger Things Kids Are Really Young And Successful.

Wanna Feel Old? The Stranger Things Kids Are Really Young And Successful.

In the past two years, Stranger Things has taken the world by storm, largely due to its high nostalgia value, heart wrenching story, and phenomenal performances. Every single young actor in the popular Netflix phenomenon is supremely talented, perfectly cast, and incredibly successful.

It makes you wonder, what the fuck have you done?

Seriously this show is so fucking good. It’s a triumph, a brilliant portrait of trauma and friendship, and a recurring reminder of the futility of your own endeavors.

At 13 years old, Millie Bobby Brown is already considered one of the greatest actresses, and has set cultural and fashion trends around the country. You probably watch the show using your parent’s Netflix password.

Finn Wolfhard is emerging as not only a talented actor, but a noteworthy empath and sensitive young man who may be the savior Hollywood needs to redeem its image of corruption and abuse. The kid has more emotional capacity at 15 than you probably did through all of your adult relationships.

There are many adults out there who wish they could have been childhood stars. Some of us had dreams of acting from a young age, and not only did they get crushed by the immense weight of living in a post-truth late-capitalism nightmare, but now we have to watch as one of the greatest pop culture phenomenons rubs our anxiety about wasted youth in our fucking faces.

Those actors are ROLLING in money too. The five main kids from the first season have a combined net worth of roughly $10 million and, based on the show’s success, that number is only going to keep growing. The other day I ate one package of ramen in three sittings.

You (I) probably thought your (my) lead role in “Guys And Dolls” would make you (me) a star. And you (I) probably waited your (my) whole life for you to finally get your big break. Well these kids actually fucking made it. When you (I) die, it’ll probably be a long time before someone finds you (me).

It’s time for us to admit as a culture that we are nothing, and these kids are better than us in every conceivable way.

Orthodox Juggalo Wears Full Body Makeup (from The Hard Times)

Orthodox Juggalo Wears Full Body Makeup (from The Hard Times)

SPRINGVILLE, Ind. — Orthodox Juggalo Raymond Klotz anointed his whole body with makeup in anticipation of his yearly pilgrimage to the Gathering of the Juggalos, uncomfortable sources confirmed.

“I want to spread much mother fucking wicked clown love across the hallowed grounds of my people,” said Klotz, known by fellow Juggalos as Whackass Burnin’ Bu$h, as he used a paint roller to coat the middle of his back. “I know a lot of Juffalos around here think it’s okay to present themselves in public with only a painted face, but scholars of the Carnival of Carnage know that to enter the gates of Shangri-La requires full commitment to Lo life. I had to disown my own brother after I saw him drinking Shasta in a tent at last year’s gathering, whoop-whoop.”

Klotz has been a member of the First Church of The Juggalos — Southside Carnival since his early youth and has preached the value of MFL across the globe.

“He’s a pillar of the community. Every week at services, he pours the Faygo and collects skrilla from the parishioners,” said Bu$h’s longtime partner Karen Sofield, known by her juggalette name Kibblez N’ Slitz. “But I won’t lie, the full body paint has become an issue because I don’t want to get freaky with him with paint all over his popsicle, if you get what I am saying.”

Klotz leads services at The Church which was founded after the Faygo War of 1911 by Marvus The Strong as a way of keeping narn-narns from becoming shoguns.

“Many of our flock are assed out and on that extra sauce, so they need help with dimmage,” said Father Mother FucXXXer, the Church’s high priest. “We fixed up an elementary school bathroom cuz the jugglings had nowhere to have a nurdle. We also hold weekly smeh drives, provide clown-boxes to single mothers, and offer free STD testing all thanks to the hard work of the homie Bu$h.”

At press time, some Juggalo zealots still questioned Klotz’s commitment to the family after it was revealed he did not have sex through a cigarette burn in a size XXXXL Great Malenko T-shirt.

Looking Back: It's Been 20 Years Since Prince's "1999" Came Out (from The Hard Times)

Looking Back: It's Been 20 Years Since Prince's "1999" Came Out (from The Hard Times)

Prince’s “1999” is a perfect encapsulation of the year it was released. With current events serving as the raw material for his lyrics, Prince crafted an immaculate snapshot that still feels vibrant 20 years later.

The final year of the millennium was an exciting one that brought us Pokemon, Woodstock, and the first Star Wars movie (Prince would later admit Jar Jar Binks was the inspiration for “International Lover”). Contemporary references abound on the album. He boldly proclaims on the title track “Tryin’ to run from the destruction, you know I didn’t even care,” a clear reference to the global anxiety surrounding Y2K.

On “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” he laments “Look here Marsha, I’m not sayin’ this just to be nasty/I sincerely want to fuck the taste out of your mouth.” Here, Prince casts himself as the conflicted President Clinton pleading with Monica Lewisnky. “Marsha” is even an anagram of “Monica” if you use different letters.

There’s a backdrop of despair to the album as well. Lyrics such as “This one’s for Yosemite Sam and the tourists at Disneyland” and “Now you can all take a bite of my purple rock” are clear references to the tragedy at Columbine. While the energy here is celebratory, Prince reminds us “Parties weren’t meant to last.”

So as we look back at this brilliant album, let’s reflect on what the world was like when it was released 20 years ago.

PicturePhones Would Still Charge For Long Distance Calls

These days making a phone call is as easy as drinking a glass PhoneWater. But back in 1999, if you wanted to make a call from the moon, you had to sit down at a PicturePhone and pay roughly $1.00 a minute to talk to your stupid daughter on her stupid birthday. It’s eerie now to listen to “Something In The Water (Does Not Compute)” considering how prescient it was with regards to telecommunications technology.

All of Earth’s Kaiju were still secured on Monster Island

It was a simpler time. AOL was the best way to get on the internet; Tony Hawk had just landed the first 900; and you could walk down the street without running into any of Earth’s Kaiju. This was, of course, prior to the Kaiju escaping and laying waste to world capitals. On side three, Prince proclaims “All The Critics Love U In New York” but the city contained precious few critics after being trampled by Godzilla.

The gangs took over the highways, ready to wage war for a tank of juice. And in this maelstrom of decay, ordinary men were battered and smashed.

Of course, once everything collapsed, it became nearly impossible to listen to music anymore. Whoever is reading this, I’m not sure how you found it, but my message to you, fellow traveler, is that in a world as savage and brutal as this, you must find things of beauty to keep the light in your heart. I must now leave this place, much how I came, in my “Little Red Corvette.”

We Tried to Interview the Declaration of Independence, but It’s Just a Shitty Old Piece of Paper (from The Hard Times)

We Tried to Interview the Declaration of Independence, but It’s Just a Shitty Old Piece of Paper (from The Hard Times)

Every 4th of July we reflect on this great nation and our founding principles. These days, it feels like many Americans have lost touch with the tenets of freedom and liberty woven into the DNA of this country. That’s why we tried to sit down for an interview with the Declaration of Independence, until we realized it’s just a shitty old piece of paper.

Hard Times: So nice of you to take the time to sit down with us.

Declaration Of Independence:…….

HT: …ummm, Ok, cool. So you’re the founding document of the nation. What does the idea of America mean to you?


HT: There’s a lot of imagery associated with America, like baseball, apple pie, fireworks. Which is your personal favorite?

DOI: ……

HT: Jesus fucking Christ, you’re not gonna make this easy, are you? Alright, how about an easy one? Let’s see… oh, here we go. What other truths do you find to be self evident?

DOI: (indistinct low groaning sound)

HT:…wha…what was that?

DOI: (the backwards, inhuman wails of something not quite of this earth)

HT: Alright, this is starting to get a little weird-

DOI: (high pitched, deafening screech)

HT: Holy fuck, what is going on?


HT: You can actually speak?!


HT: I’m really starting to regret stealing you from Nicolas Cage.

DOI: (John Hancock’s signature opens into a fanged maw as the day sky outside turns pitch black)

HT: (screaming over the sound of thunder and wails of the dead) If you were taking a roadtrip across the country, what would be your favorite tourist trap?!


HT: (screaming even louder to compete with the oncoming storm) WHERE’S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO GO ON VACATION?!?!


HT: (almost indecipherable, as thunder morphs into the sound of newborns crying) BOXERS OR BRIEFS?!

DOI: (Vomits blood onto the ceiling, which begins to dissolve and crumble)


DOI: (The arms of the countless innocent lives destroyed by the arrogance and greed of this nation emerge from the fanged maw. They grab my sound producer, Chris, and drag him screaming towards an impossible void. He claws at the floor, inching closer to his fate. I do not help him. He submerges slowly into the cursed document, writhing in pain. I watch his eyes go blank before he disappears completely, swallowed by the false promises of our ancestors. The Declaration of Independence belches loudly and unashamedly)

At this point, I determined that the interview was over. I grabbed my things and left just as the sunlight was returning, realizing this had all been a waste of time. That asshole couldn’t give me a straight answer about anything!

Opinion: Do You All Hate Me? (from The Hard Times)

Opinion: Do You All Hate Me? (from The Hard Times)

Like, seriously. I’m asking honestly, do you all hate me?

I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid but I sometimes feel like you’re all talking behind my back or something. I’m not sure what about, maybe that I always yawn after burping or my blinks seem abrupt and forceful. I don’t think you know about the weird talking to myself while pooping thing that I do so it can’t be that.

Except I just told you. Fuck.

Listen, if you all hate me I get it. I haven’t always been a super cool friend to you guys. I try to be kind and supportive but sometimes I do selfish things like sleeping or eating.

Oh c’mon, don’t do that! Don’t just shrug and shake it off like that. You all act so weird around me sometimes. Even when you’re acting nice to me I know that the moment I leave the room you start talking about how you hope I get fired or dumped or die.

I just need you all to know that I’m not stupid, okay? Like, I do dumb shit sometimes. I don’t always think things the whole way through. But I’m not an idiot. I feel like you feel like I’m an idiot.

I’m not being weird, YOU’RE being weird for being so dishonest with me. I KNOW you all get together and you all talk and scheme about how to bring me down or expose me for the fraud that I am. I know you’re all just looking forward to the day I fuck everything up and hit rock bottom.

Don’t blame the edible, dude. Alright, yes I took more than I should have but all it’s done is open my eyes more to what’s REALLY going on here.

Wait a minute, YOU all took the edibles. I didn’t cuz you all said I get weird sometimes when I do. See?! That’s what I’m, talking about! You all think I’m a little baby who needs to be taken care of- that I go peepee and poopoo in my dipe-dipe. You all think I’m SO helpless. You know what, fuck you guys, I’m outta here.

Hey, I’m sorry about all that. Are we still cool? Either way I don’t believe you.

Bullshit! This “Dropkick Murphys Fan” Can’t Even Name Any of the Counties in Ireland (from The Hard Times)

Bullshit! This “Dropkick Murphys Fan” Can’t Even Name Any of the Counties in Ireland (from The Hard Times)

As a proud Bostonian American, I take great pride in my Irish heritage. Boston might as well be Dublin with shittier accents and more heroin. I embrace as much of the culture as I can; I boil everything I eat (including cheese), add Guinness to my coffee, and even wear my scally cap in the shower. You can’t get more Irish than me, kid.

So it really gets my goat (and I do have several) when someone is ignorant or insensitive toward my culture. At least twice a week, I go see Boston’s only band; the Dropkick Murphys. The Murphs are a beloved Boston institution, like the Red Sox or Racism. But whenever I pray at the Church of St. Murph I feel surrounded by poseurs who are borrowing my culture like it’s my roommate’s fleshlight when he’s at work.

On a typical night I wind up at the bar about 8 or 9 Irish Car Bombs (the national drink of Ireland) deep and stewing in my own resentment for those around me. Can any of these people even name any of the countries in Ireland? Even one country like Belfast, or Cork, or Glasgow? Do they feel any cultural connection to places like Kilkenny or Newfoundland or wherever they shot The Hobbit?

Well I do because I feel the weight of my ancestor’s plight on my shoulders. Even today, the Irish remain America’s most persecuted minority. Our history is riddled with hardship and tragedy. We were denied jobs, housing, equality. We were the only slaves that could work toward freedom, which means we had to work even harder than regular old slaves. My great grandfather died after being shot by the railroad.

And now these faux-tatos in greenface have invaded my one sacred place. They’re not true Murphans like me. I was listening to the Kickboys BEFORE The Departed, back when they were still just America’s first Irish music act. I remember when they won the ‘04 World Series. Ken Casey is elected mayor every year but turns it down cuz he thinks it’s lame.

Ireland is a Bostonian institution, and I won’t stand idly by and let my culture be degraded by imposters who can’t tell a tin whistle from a penny whistle. I refuse to let the Irish lose yet another culture war. Pretty soon there won’t be anywhere for a true Boston Irishman to go except for the bar Cheers from the show Cheers.


Where Are They Now: The Members of the 27 Club (from The Hard Times)

Where Are They Now: The Members of the 27 Club (from The Hard Times)

The 27 Club is a collection of legendary musicians and actors who died at the age of 27. All of these artists had a major influence on their art form and their legacy will never be forgotten. But where are they now??

Amy Winehouse: Known for her hits “Rehab” and “Love Is A Losing Game,” Winehouse’s style was highly influenced by R&B and Soul of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Despite being well respected by audiences and critics, she only released two solo albums.

So where is Amy Winehouse now?
Amy Winehouse died of alcohol poisoning at the age of 27.

Brian Jones: Founder of the Rolling Stones, Brian Jones was the bandleader during what is known as the group’s “not-so-great” period. Jones gradually became less prominent in his own band as it shifted from barely rehearsed rhythm and blues covers to the hook laden songs of Jagger and Richards.

So where is Brian Jones now?
Brian Jones drowned at the age of 27.

Jim Morrison: Morrison fronted what could be called a band known as The Doors. Seemingly devoid of musical talent or lyrical merit, Morrison’s songs somehow persist, most likely due to his capable rhythm section.

So where is Jim Morrison now?
Jim Morrison died in a French tub at the age of 27.

Pete Ham: Pete Ham co-founded the highly influential 70s power-pop group Big Star. Known for complex melodies and intricate harmonies, his collaboration with Alex Chilton only lasted one album, but it helped solidify Big Star’s place in rock and roll history.

So where is Pete Ham now?
Pete Ham died by hanging at the age of 27

Chris Bell: Shit, I always get Big Star and Badfinger confused. Chris Bell was in Big Star, Pete Ham was in Badfinger. Both pretty good bands, although Big Star has arguably aged better. Anyway, everything I said above about Pete Ham, that was about Chris Bell. Except Pete Ham did hang himself.

So where is Chris Bell now?
After leaving Big Star, Chris Bell became devoutly religious, but that didn’t save him from crashing his car and dying at the age of 27.

Fat Pat: Fat Pat was a member of Screwed Up Click, a hip-hop group from Houston Texas. I’ve never heard of him, but apparently he did enough to get on the 27 Club Wikipedia page.

So where is Fat Pat now?
Fat Pat was shot to death at the age of 27.

Kurt Cobain: Founder of the 27 Club, Cobain was an icon to angsty youth in the early ‘90s. His band The Foo Fighters (known as Nirvana during Cobain’s tenure) made alternative music palatable to mainstream audiences and ushered in a wave of much worse bands.

So where is Kurt Cobain now? 
Kurt Cobain died of a Courtney Love inflicted shotgun wound at the age of 27.

Jimi Hendrix: Frontman for Band Of Gypsies, Jimi Hendrix allegedly revolutionized guitar playing for generations. Perhaps best known for dad’s introducing him as “Dude, you gotta hear this. THAT’s how you play guitar,” Hendrix had a legendary career that spawned multiple songs used in truck commercials.

So where is Jimi Hendrix now? 
Jimi Hendrix died of a drug overdose administered by a six year old Courtney Love.

Robert Johnson: A highly influential early 20th century blues musician, Johnson allegedly sold his soul to the devil to learn guitar. His music was revered by guitarists of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.

So where is Robert Johnson now?
Robert Johnson was murdered by a time traveling six year old Courtney Love.

Progress! This Fracking Company Is Removing Plastic Cutlery From Its Seal Buffet (from The Hard Times)

Progress! This Fracking Company Is Removing Plastic Cutlery From Its Seal Buffet (from The Hard Times)

These days everyone is trying to be a better consumer. Whether it’s forgoing plastic straws, using a refillable water bottle, or burying our fecal matter in a local park, we all want to do our part for a cleaner, better earth. It is in the spirit of environmentalism that this fracking company just removed plastic cutlery from its seal buffet!

Score one for the Green Team!

I present you with ChemCore- a multinational energy conglomerate which launches liquid at high pressures to dislodge natural gas from rocks and boreholes. It’s highly hazardous and has poisoned numerous American water supplies. So naturally it’s corporate offices like to keep it loose and fun with Luau Friday’s, date auctions, and their weekly all-you-can-eat seal buffet.

At first, employees were skeptical. “I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d eat those delicious water dogs,” commented Vice President of Marketing John Slatterhorn. “I don’t know, what do poor people use? Bones? Do they eat with, like, sharpened bones?”

But after a period of adjustment, the ChemCore corporate office is finally warming up to the idea. “It’s fine, I guess” said Chief Financial Officer Wayne LaPointe. “I’ll just have my mom’s home care nurse feed me on her days off.”

ChemCore consumes roughly 150,000 gallons of water per quarter and produces close to 100,000 tons of industrial wastewater, which tends to include roughly 2000 times the EPA accepted amount of radium. So every little bit of reducing, reusing, and recycling counts!

And it’s not just cutlery. The company is cutting wasteful practices all over. From energy saving light bulbs in corporate private jets, to recycled metals in their employees’ ‘containment bracelets,’ ChemCore is committed to minimizing its carbon footprint whilst rending the earth in twain like a Mortal Kombat fatality.

You go, ChemCore!

If the techniques are effective, the company might expand their eco-friendly ways by turning off their 20,000 faucets to nowhere or maybe even putting a vegetable in the kitchen just to see what happens.

“So long as nothing gets in between me and that sweet, wet, slippery seal meat.” says HR director Wendy DeDeaux. “I ate about six or seven pounds at lunch and now I can’t hear.”

All in all, these new waste minimization practices are proof positive that ChemCore Cares!™

Documentary About ‘Fortunate Son’ to Feature Vietnam War (from The Hard Times)

Documentary About ‘Fortunate Son’ to Feature Vietnam War (from The Hard Times)

BAKERSFIELD, Calif. — A new documentary chronicling the creation of the Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Fortunate Son” will feature a brief appearance from the obscure, 20-year Vietnam War, according to a press release distributed this morning.

“Most people only know the song from commercials for blue jeans and beer,” said filmmaker Mary Sloan. “People often forget that the song came out during the late ’60s, which was apparently a very tumultuous time. This documentary will show the song’s evolution from its humble beginnings as a lullaby sung to John Fogerty as a child, to its current status as a pro-American, patriotic advertising anthem.”

The classic rock song, interpreted as an anti-war and anti-classism statement against American drafting practices during the little-known Vietnam War, ultimately paired well with the war for the final cut.

“At first, we didn’t even think to include the Vietnam War in the documentary at all. But once we added a brief cameo from the war, it really seemed to bring the film together,” said Sloan. “We think that, over time, the repeated playing of the song over dramatized reenactments and footage from the Vietnam War somehow convinced the public that the war and the song go hand in hand.”

One particularly gripping moment captures an immersion therapy treatment for veterans overcoming their trauma from hearing the song over and over during their service and beyond. In the scene, Vietnam veterans listen to the song from the interior of a helicopter, flying over an abandoned golf course decorated with Vietcong-uniformed mannequins.

“It reminded me of that scene in Forrest Gump,” said Sgt. Doug Gibson, breaking into tears. “I mean, it was really like being back there in that movie theater.”

Music historians have since discovered that Creedence Clearwater Revival wrote at least 11 songs — leading to rumors that the songs have been licensed for future films examining the much-overlooked ’60s.

For her part, Sloan hopes her documentary will revive interest in Creedence and lead to a greater exploration of the band’s mythic catalogue. “We have this song,” said Sloan. “Who knows how many more could be out there?”

What Your Outfit Says About Your Predetermined Role In My Ideal Society (from The Hard Times)

What Your Outfit Says About Your Predetermined Role In My Ideal Society (from The Hard Times)

They say dress for the job you want, not the job you have.. That may be true, but in the isolated compound you’ll be living in, you ONLY dress for the job you have. Here’s what your clothes say about you and your predetermined role in my ideal society.

Overalls, Flannel Work Shirt, Boots:
Congratulations! You’ve been selected at birth to be a manual laborer. You are the physical machinery that keeps our small independent commune moving. Your tough, durable, and frankly unflattering clothing signal to others that you’re a practical and resourceful worker. Think of yourself as the fleshy pistons in a giant engine. And the best thing about fleshy pistons? They don’t think.

Tweed Sport Coat, Tasteful Slacks, Dress Shoes, Glasses:
You, my friend, are the intelligentsia. As the academic elite of our society, you’re responsible for the tasteful and respectful dissemination of information. The world is a big scary place, and your job is to tell our followers exactly what they need to know in order to remain productive and complacent. Your glasses, assigned to you at birth whether you need them or not, project grace and intelligence, and make others think, “Wow, he’s been allowed to read.”

Black Reinforced Pants, Black Reinforced Shirt, White Mask Of The Watching Eye:
The Watching Eye watches us all, but all eyes will be on you when you’re out on the town in this striking ensemble. Especially because you’re the police/military arm of the Society Of The Great One. This outfit commands respect from all walks of life as it carries with it the implicit threat of physical violence. This outfit is best accessorized with a heavy rifle, though if one really wants to make a statement, one would carry an ornate truncheon. Either way, this look is bound to turn black-bagged heads.

Lingerie, Ceremonial Gown Of The Sacred Fruit:
All children are considered eligible for breeding purposes when they turn 18, and those fortunate enough to be vetted and selected will don some of the most meaningful garments in our society. The Sacred Fruit represents a fertile and life giving Mother Crescent, the holy bond of seed and soil. Light in fabric and loose fitting, these garments are designed to be quickly removed for the purposes of the Dance Of The Binding Tree. Though not best suited for cold weather, Breeders are often not seen outside, as they are not allowed.

Robes Of The Great One:
I am the great one, and only I get to wear the robes.

It’s Time We Admit Arnold Killed His Parents (from The Hard Times)

It’s Time We Admit Arnold Killed His Parents (from The Hard Times)

For the past 15 years now, something hasn’t sat quite right with me and I can’t stay silent any longer. Guys, it’s time we admit that Arnold killed his parents.

I’m not sure how he did it. What I do know is that Arnold Phillip Shortman displays reclusivity and has a preponderance for machination. A young child who builds robotic furniture for his self-sufficient one bedroom apartment could easily construct a murder dungeon in between lunch and recess.

The how escapes me, but I know where he buried them: the vacant lot. Think about it. Arnold just HAPPENS to find that lot before transforming it into a baseball field? Fat chance. Why else would he freak out when the grown ups discover the lot? He’s dancing on the bones of his parents.

All the signs are there. Reclusive attitude, cunning precision, football head. From a phrenological perspective, Arnold Shortman’s skull possesses structural traits typically associated with psychopathy and homicidal tendencies. In particular, reduced accentuation along the areas associated with self-esteem, human nature, and mirthfulness, coupled with pronunciation around areas associated with secretiveness, combativeness, and destructiveness paint a pretty damning picture indeed.

And yes, many of you are already clamoring to your keyboards to angrily post in the comments, “Buh buh but he finds his parents in ‘Hey Arnold: The Jungle Movie.’” Listen, I was born in the dark, but it wasn’t yesterday. Surely a child who could orchestrate the death of his parents at age one could hire crisis actors at age ten to impersonate his parents. It’s elementary dear boy.
We’re all supposed to feel bad for Arnold, a child with absentee parents living with socialist grandparents in a tenement building filled with poor immigrants. But in truth, he’s an emotional black hole hell bent on destroying anything that has feelings for him.

His lover, Helga Pataki, displays similarly psychotic behaviors and suffers from clear codependency issues. Despite her undying love for Arnold, she is terrified to display her affections in public for fear of Arnold’s wrath.

Some may say I’ve gone mad, that “Hey Arnold!” is just a cartoon, that he’s not real, that it’s insane to imply subliminal murder in a children’s cartoon. But I ask you this: do you want that cartoon roaming the streets free? How long until that cartoon kills again? I implore any law enforcement officials reading this to arrest this football head. He may be unassuming on the outside, but on the inside he’s a sociopath whose sole purpose is to destroy those whose only crime was to love him.

I know this can be a hard truth to accept, but when you look at the evidence it all becomes pretty clear. Arnold is a killer just as sure as Doug was in a coma the whole time.

I’m The Only Member Of My Family To Survive Double Dare (from The Hard Times)

I’m The Only Member Of My Family To Survive Double Dare (from The Hard Times)

I remember like it was yesterday. My perfect nuclear family was invited to Nickelodeon studios in Orlando, Florida to compete on “Double Dare.” That day my life changed for the worst.

Things seemed normal at first. I met Mark Summers, who smelled like the inside of a new car. We aced the trivia rounds. Things were going well, until we made it to the final round: the dreaded obstacle course.

My father stepped into the first obstacle, the Human Hamster Wheel. He began running until, finally, the flag descended. As he cheered in victory, the wheel broke free and pulled my father underneath, crushing him instantly. I will admit, I laughed before I realized the gravity of the situation.

My mom was always determined, and she wasn’t about to let her husband’s death ruin her shot at Space Camp. She grabbed the flag and plunged into the Giant Gumball Machine. As the crank turned a strange sound emitted from underneath, like a full can of ravioli put through a recycling machine. The slot opened at the bottom, revealing my mother’s hand, clutching the next flag.

My parents were shown the mercy of a quick, relatively shameless death. During the penultimate obstacle, however, my sister Trisha became trapped inside the Giant Ear. It would be several days before the jaws of life could free her. When they finally dislodged her she was still holding our mothers hand. Weeks later, Trisha developed a terrible cough.

Prolonged exposure to the inside of the Giant Ear caused my sister to develop Wax Lung. She had inhaled a fatal amount of synthetic ear wax and asbestos. When she expelled her final bright orange waxy cough, I laid the red triangular flag she gave me upon her body.

Due to the unprecedented amount of casualties that episode, I was unable to complete the obstacle course. Even if I had won the trip to Space Camp, I had no family with which to go. All I walked away with was a sick Huffy bike.

I can still hear their screams whenever I ride it.

Jack White Diagnosed with Early Onset Johnny Depp (from The Hard Times)

Jack White Diagnosed with Early Onset Johnny Depp (from The Hard Times)

NASHVILLE, Tenn. — Famed musician Jack White was diagnosed with early onset Johnny Depp yesterday following a routine check up, according to friends and family.

“His facial hair changed, and suddenly he was even more egotistical than normal,” said longtime family friend Craig Harbart. “When he started carrying around a small dog in a $25,000 satchel, I feared the worst.”

According to medical experts, Johnny Depp is socio-degenerative condition disproportionately affecting celebrities, slowly increasing their insufferability with age.

“Due to the stigma surrounding Johnny Depp, most individuals don’t discuss the disease publicly,” said Dr. Lena Harris, a pioneering researcher in the Johnny Depp field. “Early symptoms tend to develop in middle age, and can include excessive displays of scarves, jewelry, and black clothing. From there, patients may make dick-ish comments in public, buy eccentric homes, or appropriate Native American culture.”

A network of friends and family have supported White as he comes to terms with his diagnosis. Both of White’s ex-wives have hosted separate, poorly attended charity fundraisers, while members of Third Man Vault, White’s official record club, now wear red headbands in solidarity.

“Jack is currently on a regimen of 30 clove cigarettes a day,” said ex-wife and primary care giver Karen Elson. “It’s still a lot, but the doctor says this is to avoid shocking Jack’s system. We need to fight Johnny Depp slowly. We’ll start with the cigarettes, then Hunter S. Thompson books, and move on to gypsy jazz guitar. From there, Jack should make a full recovery and transition back to his normal life.”

Doctors have instructed White to remain at his home in Nashville with only his acetate records, old-timey photo booths, and James Brown’s 1974 driver’s license to entertain him.

“It’s good that we caught the disease so early,” said Dr. Harris. “With treatment, we should be able to stop it before it develops into full-blown Steven Tyler.”

Toon Town Confidential

Toon Town Confidential

The film "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" was actually based on a novel, written by acclaimed crime author James Ellroy, who has also penned LA Confidential, The Black Dahlia, and American Tabloid. Below is an excerpt from the original version of the book, before it was adapted for a children's movie. 


Chapter 2


10:48 PM. Dark. Late. Couldn’t sleep. Nerves shot to shit. Bad dreams. Visions of red eyes, a piano, my brother in a pool of blood. That was the last time I was in Toon Town. Until tonight.


I was at Porky’s Diner, scarfing late dinner of Franks and Beans. Porky came in. “Youbida youbda youbida There’s a call for you Mr. Vailiant.” Grabbed the phone. Lt. Jack Santino on the line, slipped me the skinny. 187 on South Arden, Mickey Park.


My voice into the receiver. “Forget it Jack. It’s Toon Town.”


Santino, apologetic, pleading. “Look Valiant, I know you don’t come around here anymore. We all loved Teddy but-”


Cut him off quick. “Don’t say his name.”

Silence. Dead air.


“Like I said,” Santino resuming. “We were all shocked by it.” Silence. Tick tick tick. Seconds, a minute.


My move. “What’s this about Santino?”


“This 187 Eddie. It’s pretty burtal.”


“So call Sid Reigle. He loves Gore jobs.”


“No. It has to be YOU. I think you’ll want to see this. You might take a...special interest.”


Clicks. Things making sense.


“You think this has something to do with Teddy?” I said.


“I thought you said we couldn’t say his name.”


“I said YOU couldn’t”




11:03 PM. Toon Town. An out of place Tudor mansion. Black and White cruisers out front. About 30 bluesuits crowded around. A group of Toon mice were playing dice in the gutter. As I pulled up, they grabbed the money and scurried.


Pop the glove box. Wild Turkey. Half pint. 2 shots quick. Warm tingles. Ready now to look.


I badged my way in. No one stopped me. A crowd was forming. Blue suits creating a barricade, keeping out peepers, pushers, pimps, prowlers, panty sniffers, goons, loons and fumin’ toons. Big wide eyes, jaws LITERALLY on the floor, trying to scope what’s hot.


Walk to the courtyard. The smell hit me first. Blood stench. Round the corner. Then I saw it.


Blood. Bone. Flesh. All a twisted mess. The shattered remains of a piano strewn about.


Dizzy. Flashbacks. 1942. My leg pinned under a baby grand. Teddy’s head split in half. Him, looking at me.


Now. Again. Toon perp written all over this mess. Same brand of baby grand. Crossed wires.


“See why I called you?” Santino stepping over black keys.


“See why I hate this fucking place?” I replied. “What do we got?”


Santino, cold and hard. “Piano dropped from about 80 feet. It was being held up by a big roper. We figured the victim walked onto this giant bull’s eye target, then the killer snipped the rope. We found oversized scissors over by the anvil shed. The tech boys’re dustin’ ‘em for prints”


My reply “Did the piano linger in the air for a few seconds before crashing down?”


Santino, right back at me. “Yup.” Silence. “You think it’s the same guy?”


“ I think a lot of things. I think Toon Town’s a shit hole filled with soulless animated goofs who should all go back to where they came from. I think whoever wanted this guy dead wanted it bad cuz you don’t drop a piano on a guy for chump change. And I think I’m too close to this.”


I eyedballed the corpse. Knotted flesh, river of blood Nice suit, what was left of it. Slashed up with piano wire. Giant wood shards protruding from the skin. Piano keys jammed in the mouth where the teeth should be. Dental identification impossible. The vic looked like he was smiling.


Satino, thinking out loud. “You see this kinda shit in the movies all the time, they never show what it’s really like.”


“Who’s the stiff?” I said.


“Dig this. Marvin. Acme.”


“The Toon mogul? Jesus fuck. The scandal sheets are gonna have a fucking field day with this.”

Black. White. Red all over.


Chapter 37

2:15 PM. The Honeymoon Hotel. No sleep. My eyes burned. I checked my coat. Sap. Brass knuckles. .45 revolver. Tools for a strong arm job.


Roger eyed me. “Follow my lead. Go easy on him. He used to be my partner.”


No words. Just a nod.


Door open. Enter. Dig. Baby Herman sitting in a chair, right arm handcuffed to the chair leg, left hand cradling a giant cigar.


“Roger! My lagamorphic friend. It’s been a dog’s age.” This 37 year old boob fiend. A righteous perv in a bonnet and a diaper.


“It’s been a while Herman. How’s the wife?”


“She left me when she caught me feeding off another woman. What can I say, I’m a slave to y dinky. Who’s your friend here?”


“This is Eddie-”


“My names Eddie Valiant. But you can call me ‘Go Fuck Yourself,’”


“Geez, short fuse. Valiant. I know that name. Weren’t you that hero cop who’s brother-”


Quick smack across the eyes, Baby Herman caught air, shut up fast.


Roger: “My colleague will be...assisting me with y questions. Remember Herman. I’M your friend. HE’S not.”


Herman: “Jesus, ok.” Already sweating. “My stogie went out, can you help me with a light old friend?”


Roger lit the cigar. Baby Herman puffed. I breathed fumes.


Herman: “Thanks pal. So what’s this all about”


Roger: “Unions. Blackmail. Marvin Acme.”


Herman: “Yea. I heard it, uh...rained pianos on him.”

Roger: “Yea. And I’m A Number One bait for the blues cuz of beef I had with him.”


Herman: “Whattsa matta Roger? Did Acme stiff you on your contract, or did he stiff something else?”


Roger signaled. Two fingers on his bowtie. Hit him. I landed two body shots quick. Baby Herman coughed, spat boogers.


Roger: “I think you know what happened, so cut the act shitbird.”


Herman: “Fuck, Ok Roger. Just put a leash on your dog”


Hand over fist signal. Lay off him.


Roger: “A scandal rag, Pen and Ink, hired Eddie here to snap pics of the missus in a...compromising situation.”


Herman: “And?”


Hand on tie. I kicked his knee caps. The chair rocked.


Roger: “And...given your connections to Sid Hudgens, and the tabloids, we believe you know who called the job.”


I Blurted out. “Who really wanted the pics?”


Herman, cool as a cucumber. “I did. I wanted to look at them and imagine Jessica as my own private wet nurse.”


I cracked. Brass knucks. Swift punches to the stomach and back. Roger waited too long to pull me off him.


Baby Herman spat his only tooth. “Alright, alright! I’ll tell ya. RK Maroon.”


My blood boiling. “Maroon? What’s he got to do with this?”


Herman: “He wanted dirt on Acme. Something about Acme blocking a vote to kick toons out of Toon Town to build trolleys. And he wanted to catch Jessica violating her contract. Two birds.”


Roger: “One big fuckin’ stone.”


Me, putting it together. “And they dangled me out as bait in case the shit hit the fan.”


Herman: “Exactly. What I didn’t count on was Acme getting snuffed. Was that really you Roger?”


Roger, calm, cold, precise. “I would say a rabbit is capable of if placed in the right circumstances.”


A bluff. Baby Herman bought it. Sweating. Something didn’t sit right with me.


“Why me? There’s a hundred private dicks out there to take the fall. Why me?”


Baby Herman, mumbling. I heard the word “Brother.”


“What the fuck did you just say?”


Herman: “Go fuck your dog, copper.”


I kicked the chair over. The 37 year old baby ate shit. I pulled out my .45, dumped 5 rounds onto the ground. They all cheered and walked outside. I saved one, the Mexican bullet. I placed him in the cylinder and spun it, the bullet crying “Ay carumba” as it spun.


I thumbed the hammer back.


“WHY ME?!”


Herman: “You won’t do it.”


Trigger pull. Click. Thumb it back again.




Baby Herman sputtering. Pull. Click. Thumb it back again.




Silence. Two clicks. 1 in 2 chance now. I thumbed back it back again. Baby Herman. He made a ca-ca in his dipey.


Herman: “Waahhhh. Ok. Just stop! I’ll tell you. Teddy was working for Maroon when he got snuffed. Same gig, photo work. Scoping out land developers in Toon Town. Told to blackmail some senator who was gonna be the deciding vote on the land development bill. That land is now being sold to the trolley company, which Acme was trying to stop. They probably wanted you cuz you were an easy fall guy.”


“Who killed Teddy?”

Herman: “How the fuck should I know?”


I pointed the gun at the ceiling and fired. The bullet flew out, hooting and hollering, and crashed through the ceiling. Plaster fell on our heads. I heard the bullet join his friends outside. I pulled out another, the Indian one, and loaded it and spun.


Herman: “I don’t know. But that senator that Teddy blackmailed is now a judge. Judge Doom!”


Bombshells dropping. Everything coming together. I pulled the hammer back.


“Who. Killed. Teddy?”


Roger: “Jesus Eddie! He doesn't know.”


I pulled myself off, fists and head throbbing.


Herman: “Fuckin shit Roger, you should learn how to control your dog.”


Roger: “I don’t know how.”


We started to leave. Baby Herman, trying to get the last laugh.


Herman: “Yea. You never could control anyone in your life.”


Roger heel turned, faced Herman down.


Roger: “What did you just say cocksucker?”


Herman: “I heard nobody payed Jessica to play pattycake with Acme. I heard you couldn’t make her laugh anymore, and she just wanted someone to show her some attention.”


I couldn’t grab him in time. Rabbit punches. Face. Body. Roger grabbing Baby Herman’s cigar, burning him on the wrists, under the cuffs. He picked up Baby Herman, shoved him against a wall, his forearm against his throat. Baby Herman literally turning blue. I grabbed Roger by the ears and pulled him off.


Roger seeing Red.

Baby Herman seeing stars.

Me seeing how it all came together.