Porocrom’s Crappaper

I just saw House of Wax and I want my fucking hour back. What an utter load of fucking shit. It was about a city where some brothers kill and maim and whatever, bleh. I realise films require some suspension of disbelief, but this fucking movie required suspension of brain activity in order to be enjoyed. No, not really, not even braindead people would enjoy it. In fact, they would detest it. Anyway, as I was watching it, getting ideas on how to kill the friend that suggested it, I began to identify some of the cliches of horror films. Seriously, come to think of it, all these movies are always, always the same. I will elaborate on what I mean anon:

When being chased by someone, forget to walk.

Why is it that when the killer chases someone, that dude never remembers how walking goes. I mean, how fucking often have you tripped and fell in the last 20 years of your life? Seriously, it’s right foot, left foot, it shouldn’t be that fucking hard. Also, when someone’s chasing you and you fall, don’t get up immediately, just take your fucking time, what’s he going to do anyway, kill you? Nah. Lying down and staring at him is a surefire way to scare him away, do that.

When hiding, don’t be quiet.

There’s someone after you and you manage to pick your ass up from the ground long enough to find an abandoned warehouse, conveniently placed in the middle of the desert. You get in and find a hiding place, and the killer waits patiently for you to hide and comes in, even though he was just two seconds behind you. So, now that you are safely hidden, what can you do to pass the time? That’s right, sneeze. Don’t feel obliged to be quiet, that’s rude. Sneeze, cough, play with some bones and scream when a severed head falls, whatever, it’s all good.

If you manage to injure the killer, walk away.

Picture this: You’re walking through an abandoned town, complete with everything people have in houses, and you know there is one or more killers in the vicinity. Don’t stop to take anything, and if you see knives or guns around just leave them there. If, despite what I just said, some kind of lame weapon like a baseball bat or a crossbow falls in your hands, try to injure the killer. When you do, he will invariably fall to the ground and obviously die. You don’t really need to check or make sure he’s dead in any way, because, well, you just put a dart through his fucking skin! If that’s not a fatal wound, I don’t know what is. “Hey, wanna check if the dude’s dead?” “Nah, just leave his gun and yours and let’s go to the other buildings, it’s cool.”

The killer dies.

This is an extension of the previous rule. The killer never dies, you idiot. Even if he somehow dies now, he’ll be alive in the sequel. This is actually a pretty good way to discover who the killer is, just kill everyone on the cast, whoever doesn’t die is the psychopath. Other people will die by the dozens, just smack them in the face and they die, but you can bludgeon, shoot, burn, poison, hang, maim, burn, poison, shoot, maim, maim the killer and he’ll still be alive to kill again. That’s why you see three and four sequels to a god-awful movie.

The killer can’t walk through walls.

No matter where you are, no matter how well you’ve looked around before you get in there, the killer is in there with you. I don’t care if you just jumped in a coffin and locked the lid, the killer will either be hiding under the pillow or slip in through the crack. Just when you think you’ve lost him, he’ll come and stab you in the ass with his dick. Can you say “anal rape”?

Whatever you do, don’t stick together.

Hey, you’re 12 people against one killer and you’re trying to avoid dying. Obviously, the best way to do that is to split up, because, let’s face it, noone is going to kill 12 people one by one, right? Right. So, don’t arm yourselves, don’t stick together, don’t even try to get the fuck out of wherever you are, just split up and roam around aimlessly. Statistics have shown that people who do that have a 95.7% chance of survival, and that’s a damn good chance.

So, there you have it. An unofficial guide on how to survive a (bad) horror movie. By the way, Elisha Cuthbert is quite the hotness. Nice boobs. Paris Hilton could use some face ironing, but nice body. Yes, this post has descended to boob talk, sic transit gloria mundi.

Sacrilege Alert
If you aren’t mature enough to realize that all forms of organized religion are inherently hilarious, then you should probably not read this post. I know you’re going to ANYWAY, because fundamentalists are too stupid to read disclaimers… or regulate their bowel movements (yes, I wrote a poo joke).

Despite countless (read: 2) attempts to get Poromenos to pen (read: key) a post about religious/public holidays (read: Mr. Callaghan, I had sex with your daughter and took pictures), he has refused to do so. And so it is upon me once more to bring you Porocrom’s interpretation of…

The Easter Story

From what I could research, while getting really baked and flipping through Easter specials on daytime TV, the Easter celebration is based upon the Pagan festival of Eoster, a fertility and rebirth festival. It is during this time that Christians celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, who in the spirit of killer rock bands everywhere, did a wicked encore by coming back from the dead. To honor this feat, rockers everywhere still bear his trademark hairstyle.

The story goes something like this. Jesus was chillin’ at the crib with his homies (Peter, Paul, Mary, Simon… Judas was there… some short bearded guy named Gimli I think… anyway there were like 13 of them until they convinced Bilbo to be the burglar) when he was like “Hey, it’s passover. Let’s go into town and like, eat some stuff.” Biblical scholars have cleaned up the ancient Aramaic language so now it says “Blessed are the breadmakers, for they are 30% off with in-store coupon.”

And they went to town and ate supper, posed for the now-famous painting, and had a generally wild time. At the end of dinner, Jesus (in a particularly fanciful mood) took some bread and passed it around and said to everyone “This is my body you eat.” I can only assume he said this after they ate the bread because I don’t care when in history it is, that’s pretty gross. Then, as a great followup gag, he pronounced the wine to be his blood, proving once and for all that Jesus is an ancient ancestor of the Kool-Aid man.

They went out to the garden to take a nap, when the cops showed up and busted up the Brokeback Mount of Olives reunion tour. Peter cut off some dude’s ear, proving once and for all that Mike Tyson is a biblical scholar. They took Jesus and interviewed him, but because he was lousy at producing sound-bytes, they decided to kill him in the most humane way possible: nailing him to a big fucking plank of wood.

Luckily for our hero, he was able to get his daddy to pull his ass out of trouble, proving once and for all that George W. Bush is a true Christian (or Satan incarnate, our scientologists are working round the clock…). Everyone was really bummed out, except for Caiaphas the high priest and Annus, his father in law, who are quoted in a recently discovered manuscript (the gospel according to Porocrom) thusly:

Caiaphas: OMG, we r soo kewl
Annus: LOLZ0R ^_
Caiaphas: ROFL @U
Annus: WTF?
Caiaphas: UR name iz anus, f4gz0r
Annus: STFU

But as we all know, Jesus, like disco, refused to stay dead. He rose from the grave, which was considered to be a good move by everyone except the funeral home who had to refund the disciples’ money. He then made a covenant with all mankind in perpetuity: he swore to come down the chimney every Easter and bring chocolate eggs to all the good boys and girls of the world. And to the bad boys and girls, eternal damnation.

So if you have been good this year, expect a big chocolate surprise underneath the Easter tree (if you are a dog owner, make sure it is not steaming before you eat it) (yes, two poo jokes in one post). If you have been a bad boy, go to church and confess your sins to a guy in a big dress. If you’ve been a bad girl, go to my room and await a spunking… I mean spanking… no I don’t.

Joyeux paque, tout le monde.

So every now and then I get suckered into doing something stupid. My social psych prof (who is GREAT and nothing at all like my research prof) told the class that she would give us extra credit if we attended an event at the local city hall to mark International End Racism Day (since we are discussing prejudice in lecture). So I went with my friend Amy down to city hall to check out this supposed Tibetan Peace Concert that was happening in the evening. Now the word ‘Peace’ should have alerted me to the nature of the event, but I naively assumed it would be something cool. Little did I know that I was about to enter a whole new realm of Lame.

We arrived on the tail end of what must have been a series of speeches. We caught a 5-minute speech about the importance of recognizing the connection between human beings by a local Tibetan Lama (not to be confused with a Llama, a fuzzy animal that tends to inhabit more arid regions such as outer Mongolia), which I thought was pretty neat. I was looking forward to an eclectic and educational evening. Little did I know that this supposed Peace Concert was really a breeding ground for dirty greasy hippies.

In the audience, I counted about three good-looking people, which included Amy, myself, and my reflection in a nearby mirror. The rest of the audience was children (who can’t be described as UGLY, per se) and people who looked like they had just come off the bus from Camp Retro. People of Kitchener, I beseech you: at the end of each decade, please update your wardrobe/look… and also please shower and wash your hair

The MC hit the stage and began introducing the bands. He was one of those people who was once told that he was funny, and since then nobody has had the heart to tell him that he’s about as funny as tripping and landing balls-first on a porcupine whilst pissing in the woods. I think the only funny thing about him was his idea of fashion. Maybe in the parallel hippie universe where it is still acceptable to wear your hair slicked back into a rat-tail this guy was the shit. However, in THIS universe, a dandelion-yellow shirt with a blue Snoopy tie and faded blue jeans can get you 8-10 months imprisonment in fashion jail, and don’t you dare drop the soap around THOSE boys.

He introduced the first band, which was a sort of Latin/blues group with this REALLY hot guest singer (who I think I might have gone to high-school with, oddly enough). They were pretty good. They were followed closely by the semi-cliche ‘guy-with-piano’ act (the ultimate cliche being ‘guy-with-guitar’). In between each act, the grease-ball corporate hippie MC regaled us with examples of his bizareness – he told us a story about how a Buddhist friend of his said that “Jesus Christ was a cool guy!”… (the laughter was deafening in its silence) – and semi-insulted each performer. I guess it’s one of those things: if you have no talent on stage, you spend your time tearing apart people who don’t have talent either, but are at least trying (for further example, see Simon from American Idol).

By the time the third act came on stage, I was regretting my decision not to wire myself with a bomb before I left the house. Although I am pretty sure God/Allah doesn’t like suicide bombers, I think he would make an exception if I took a few dozen hippies with me. The third act consisted of a dreadlocked black stoner with 9 fingers (I wish I was making this up), a RAGING bull-dyke who was probably seen more naked women than I have or ever will, and a guy who, with a haircut and a de-ponchoing, would actually be semi-normal-looking. The trio, called “Organic Groove” is a three-piece percussion band…

I don’t know if you have ever been to Ottawa and seen street drum circles, but they are pretty cool. It’s just a bunch of stoners and arts students who own drums who hang out on the streets and beat out some cool jams. I think Organic Groove desperately wants to be one of those groups. They had everything that the Ottawa groups have, except fully-competent members, and credibility. The dude with the dreads was great, minus the crazy bug-eyes that remained somewhat half-closed the entire time. The semi-normal guy was… semi-normal (read: completely unremarkable). The chick was TERRIBLE and could learn a few things about beating from a 15 year-old boy whose parents just recently got high-speed internet.

Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any more ridiculous, they brought on their fourth SECRET member… the cow-bell girl (again, I wish I was making this up). For about 7 minutes, this chick hit a cowbell with a stick. I can’t imagine a less exciting role in the band than being the cowbell person. She didn’t even put any obscene thrusting into it like Will Farell’s character from the now-notorious SNL sketch about Blue Oyster Cult. I speculated momentarily about which one of the band members she was sleeping with to get mandatory inclusion in a crappy band, and concluded it must be the bull-dyke, or all three of them (damn hippies).

As much as I like to pick on Organic Groove, they did include the audience in their third song (which, incidentally sounded EXACTLY like their first and second songs). Cowbell girl handed out drums, clack sticks and a big Native drum (take THAT, ancestors’ spirits!) to members of the audience, irrevocably proving that it takes ZERO talent to be in an all-drum band.

I debated sticking around to watch the next band, a group of people with physical disabilities (called “The Opportunities”) play, but after waiting 20 minutes for them to set up, and noticing that the greasy MC was trying to start an a capella singalong of “Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz” (again… not making it up), Amy and I decided to flee before things got out of hand.

So, in conclusion, don’t go to Peace Concerts unless you are wearing C4… or ear plugs…

And yes Jakub, it is ironic that a peace concert made me want to kill someone.

My life must be pretty uninteresting these days, because I am posting another installment of…

This edition focuses on yet another rapper. I realize that technically he isn’t a BAND, but he might as well be. This is an artist that was also referred to me by Ken, who is way more up on the hip-hop scene than I am. This is a guy who is often referred to as a ‘triple-threat’ for his skills as an MC, a DJ and a producer. I’ve never heard anyone rhyme quite like…

Scram Jones

Listening to Scram is almost like listening to a standup comedian mixed with Dr. Seuss… mixed with the streets of New York. According to interviews, he’s been mixing since he was 15, and pretty much involved in every part of the underground he could get into since then. It’s interesting to hear about a white guy making it big in an industry that is essentially 100% black (except the lawyers), but what is even more interesting is that he does it better than 99% of these so-called ganstas from the hoods of various cities. I’ve never heard any of the top 10-selling artists spit with the same level of artfullness as Scram (with special exception being made for Kanye West).

There’s something almost playful about the way that Scram raps. I’ve never heard anyone else (in rap or outside of rap) put this kind of a spin on rhyming. It’s not something that can be adequately conveyed in text alone, but I’m going to try. This is a cut from his track “Change Ya Rosta”

I almost lost my 20/20 drinking 20/20, The kind of kid that they would talk about on 20/20 Take the rims off of a Jeep, I got 20 20s, Sell ‘em for 400 apiece, just give me 20 20s. … Y’all don’t know the shit you’re in I’ll leave you in a pool of of piss now you’re in urine And you can’t get out ‘cause once you’re in, you’re in Now you wanna spaz out like (Yrrrin! Yrrrin!)

Again, it’s not something that can really be conveyed through reading it, but I swear, this guy’s unbelievable. He’s got these incredible one-liners that clearly show off both his comedic genius for even coming up with these things, but his artistic genius as well for fitting them into a rhyme. In fact, those of you who know me well know I love making outrageous analogies or similies… I got it from Scram. Some of my favourites are:

“Two bitches gave me mono, now I’ve got stereo”
“I tried to become a vegetarian but it was hard to stop cold turkey”
“My flow is like lard, PHAT. While your style’s on a diet with no carbs”
“Yeah your rhyme’s the shit… why? ‘cause it’s crap”
“I used to ride with no hands on the handlebars/now my hand’s on the mike, watch me handle bars”

The list goes on, and Scram fans will undoubtedly say “What about this one?” but you get the idea. If you are a hip-hop fan AT ALL… at all at all at all… check out Scram Jones. He’s a bit undeground, so it may be a little difficult to get your hands on the goods. If you’re Jonesin’ really bad, e-mail me and I’ll see what I can do.

Tracks to Check Out

- Back to Back (f. Rob Swift & X-cutioners) – Air it Out (f. Jack Venom) – Heavy Metal (f. Kool G. Rap) – 3’s Company (f. Swigga & Eddie Brock) – Line Up (f. Styles P.) – Change Ya Rosta – Liquid Heat

Seriously… check this guy out!