I have now have an official beer.

Let me explain. Over the past year, I've given up caffeine, alcohol, and anything resembling sweets or dessert. However, to preserve what most people would assume is sanity, I plan on indulging in these three things a few times per year.

Dessert is pretty much for birthdays, and even then - small amounts. Caffeine is especially rare - I might have it twice a year, for some rare days where I am overwhelmed with work.

Alcohol is consumed pretty much on the same basis as birthdays. And even then, it's for making nice at social occasions, where the hosts INSIST I drink.

But now! If I am asked if I want something in particular, I have a beer I can request. Do you remember from my earlier blogs, the four Belgian imports? Angelique, Mystique, Euphorique, and Diablique?

Well, my guess is that enough "fine, upstanding citizens" complained about the title "Diablique," probably saying something about Satanic promotion. So, while the Belgians were busy laughing at America for being unable to develop a sense of humor, they had to come up with a new name.

Behold, ladies and gentlemen: The new name for Diablique:

"Lunatique."

I have found my beer.


Vengaboys - The Party Album! - Boom Boom Boom Boom

7

syntax bad baby jeebus cry, makes

What do you do when you wake up next to your loved one while they're still asleep?

Do you go back to sleep? Do you cuddle? Perhaps you might listen to their heart beat.

Or you could be Seven, of the Mr. Darker persuasion.

And you could blow a huge raspberry on exposed werewolf tummy. And you could watch as your mind slows down time, and a grey and white naked werechick muscle spasms in pure panic straight up to the ceiling. And then, in EXTRA SLOW MOTION, you get to watch as all 50+ pointy parts of the aforementioned werewolf come down on you.


In Strict Confidence - Holy (The Hecq Destruxxion) - Sleepless (AltNights Reedition)

7

unless my brains have been replaced by mr. saltana's yams

Imagine a road made out of the parts of armored bulldozers, whose rubber parts are burning, sending acrid fumes into the already sulfuric air. The black smoke rises like dark columns to the crimson sky, guiding the way to more infernal things.

Crackling machines, with poison green LEDs glowing eerily in the dark, add ambience to the sharp, dangerous bursts of sparks coming from heat-damaged components - they are the monster computers - now the e-mail servers of the dark forces.

The trees are made entirely out of titanium sporks. Tethered to their prongs are the Iron Balloons, floating lazily in the hot, still air. Spouts of minty fresh fire shoot out of the blackened, charred ground at random. If you look carefully, you can see the nozzles of my Listerine Flamethrowers all throughout the landscape.

In the brimstone cities, the moving sidewalks are extremely long spiked chains, from all those chainsaws I used until they exploded. The fractured glass in the buildings showcase all those soulless abominations I made (including the tuna, garlic, jalopeno, pickle, mustard, mayo, rye sandwich).

Somewhere, there are demons being run over by a chair. A SUPERCHAIR 3000, without a driver.

I know where I must head. It is the only thing that could wind up HERE, with me. Some of you might be thinking, "What, he's talking about Anya?"

No. My 99.

It sits there, on a mount of rotating bone and crushed shopping carts. A '99 Toyota Corolla, painted some weird shade of maroon, with a collection of bumper stickers subtly extolling murder, pain, and the possibility of me dating your daughter.

Slinky demon babes slither over the hood and trunk. All the while my 99's headlights seem to glare at everything, just begging for an excuse to roll its 2500 Lb mass over everything that moves. It knows, it knows that I have the keys. If it could, it would smack aside the red-skinned, horned seductress out of the way with its driver-side door and let me in.

Instead, I do it, and settle in to the microfiber seats. My keys are almost in the ignition when a feminine sigh and the smell of brimstone breathe down over my shoulders. "Do you know what I can do to your penis? I'll bet you'll never guess." Scarlet, taloned, red hands rubbed over my black shirt, teasing their way down to my pants.

"I'm quite imaginative. I'll bet you do something like this!" I reached down and retrieved the rocket launcher. In glowing paint, the words "Eat Me" wrapped around the pointed head of the rocket.

The black-lipped crimson demoness was quite surprised, "Where did you get that?"

"From the refrigerator."

"In your CAR?!"

I smile as the backblast catapulted me into the dashboard. A close-up explosion couldn't kill me - this IS Hell, after all. I grab one of the demonesses' dismembered breasts and squeeze it like a stress ball, as I answer her question, posthumously:

"Like cowboys do in TV Land!"



The Clash - The Singles - The Magnificent Seven

7

no! your munching is quite haphazard!

I was eating dinner with Anya in my traditionally non-traditional way (eat dinner in any way that hasn't been published in a book) when I suddenly realized something. I nearly sat bolt upright, except for the fact that I was eating dinner lying down on the stove, and if I sat all the way upright, I would have hit my head on the hood.

"I just realized that I don't remember today! Not a single thing!"

Anya was on the counter, moderating the feeding frenzy of were-puppies and a large steak. I have never seen meat get devoured that fast. Okay, maybe once. Remember when Anya ate that jock I doped up on LSD, Ecstasy and beer? Ohhhh, she was hungry after that.

Anya reached over and patted my head. "It is just as well, dear. If you remembered EVERYTHING you did, you would be sitting on the floor, screaming and twitching."

I looked over, "I'm fairly certain that would only happen once or twice. I only TRY out the experimental psychotropic drugs, I don't get addicted to them."

Anya licked her claws clean, "Oh, it is not just that. It is all the insane things you do. Take recently, for example. Do you remember that time you overdosed on garlic?"

I searched my mind, and could only come up with a hazy memory. I looked up and watched Anya licking her claws and it hit me like a... stove hood.

I had been up late at night, for some reason, and I vaguely recall eating two whole bulbs of elephant garlic. The effect of eating these two bulbs was something akin to being drunk, only far worse. My inner ears had almost completely shut down, thus making up white, down peanuts, and left and right were replaced with styrofoam. Everything floated. In a sea of air, gravity was absolutely REPEALED. My arms and legs flowed like water in this sea. The only difference between this state and being drunk was that I could still feel.

I don't think I quite made it to bed, as drowsiness claimed me before I could even get out of my clothes. I woke up leaning on one of my floor speakers, looking up just as Anya came into the living room, holding some of the puppies. Her hand went up to her nose, "Oh my #@$%!#$% G*d. I can smell you from over here!"

I couldn't see straight, and that definitely had something to do with the fact that I ran into several walls before getting half-way across the room. I could see her putting the kids away. I vaguely recall her saying, "Okay, babies. I have to go talk with daddy, because he has been irresponsible with food again."

The lights went out, and something hit me. The room swirled and flowed like water. Which would explain why my subwoofer was floating around the ceiling. The lights slowly started to come on. I could only stare at the fuzzy columns of legs that gradually joined into a very sexy, Amazonian trunk, sprouting two very strong feminine arms, whose hands gleamed with razor sharp claws. All this was topped by a cute, fuzz-tufted neck, which grew into a WWII gas mask, complete with air hose and tank.

Her arm seemed to snake out and grab me by the collar, yanking me up to the perfectly round eye covers of the mask. "I am going to remove the garlic from your body. Trust me, this is going to hurt you way more than me."

I remember the clothes being torn... skin shredded... blood splashing... her claws plunging deep into my stomach...

A glass of orange juice splashed me in the face. Anya was sitting in the kitchen sink, smirking. "You see how it is sometimes better... not to remember?"


Moby - Play - Run On

7

irving shifty bizarre

"If you set out Massic wine in fair weather, should there be any thing thick in it, it will be attenuated by the nocturnal air, and the smell unfriendly to the nerves will go off: but, if filtrated through linen, it will lose its entire flavor. It is ignorance which is ruinous, as when the cries of humanity beat against a deaf ear; and we can take a comfort, denied to Carlyle, from the fact that he has made us awake to our social duties. For right and wrong are relative. "Type need antitype." The fact that goodness is best, and that goodness is not a stagnant state but a progress, a gradual realization, though never complete, of an infinite ideal, of the perfection of God by a finite being, necessarily implies the consciousness of sin and evil. O ye faithful witnesses to my proceedings, Night and Diana, who presidest over silence, when the secret rites are celebrated: now, now be present, now turn your anger and power against the houses of our enemies, while the savage wild beasts lie hid in the woods, dissolved in sweet repose; let the dogs of Suburra (which may be matter of ridicule for every body) bark at the aged profligate, bedaubed with ointment, such as my hands never made any more exquisite. They cannot quite catch a great man in the making, nor, even by the help of evolution, say anything wiser about genius than that "the wind bloweth where it listeth." No doubt the poet's optimism indicates a native sturdiness of head and heart."


Even as we speak, Anya is pouting and asking if she really has to read this.


Camouflage - Motif Sky - Conversation

7

pants make the man