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So anyways, last night I was watching the movie Gummo for the third time or so. It’s been a few years since I’d seen it last, but I’ve always thought it was great. I was watching the one vignette where the gay kid (played by director Harmony Korine) was trying to seduce the black midget — before I could even say anything, the girl I was watching it with said:

“Didn’t I see him in a Meatholes video?”

Sho’, enough – it was him.

For Gummo newbies here is a few quick hints:

1. On the back of the Gummo DVD box the Plot Synopsis says: Xenia, Ohio, is a small poor and boring city that never fully recovered after a tornado in the 1970s.

It should say: Poor white trash kill cats, sniffs glue, pimps out their retarded sister, and engages in poor hygiene.

2. Also, if you have the DVD: Watch the director’s commentary first. The movie almost makes sense after you listen to that nutjob.

Check out: Meatholes here.

Originally Written: Saturday, April 05, 2003

For misplaced, yet upwardly mobile souls, there are places worse than the ATL. However, there are far better places for stratospheric social climbers, like my compatriots and me, to be stuck at on Friday night than lowly, local shit-kicker bar, The Highlander. You see, we exist in an unfortunate state of social limbo, within which we have too much money and infamy to socialize with our commoner friends, but not enough money or style to be buying out the VIP room at the Crobar in South Beach. You see, we ARE ballers — just one step beneath the pretentious upper crust of society — but it still is most likely that any of our “normal friends” will not have enough cheddar to make it to the titty bar three nights a week, like we do. Maybe there is strength in numbers; maybe misery loves company – who knows? Either way there MUST be some kind of network within which the Moderately Successful can meet other Moderately Successful people to end the stagnation and loneliness of this social purgatory.

It was one boring fall evening in 2002 that me, Jeremy from Nashville Pussy, and Paul were all sitting around, bored stiffer than 18 year olds on Viagra after the prom. We decided there has to be something better than this! I mean, we are young, semi-famous, somewhat successful, intimidatingly good-looking, with a few bucks in our pockets – we deserve better! We ain’t P-Diddy, but among the crowd we run with, we are most surely local celebrities of the highest order. Every night, hanging around the same scumbags, looking at the same three of four tired-ass bitches we’ve already run up in many times, and occupying one of the same three barstools our asses have been parked on for a year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Obviously, we were moving on while our plebian friends were fast becoming too lame for us. Still, at the same time, we must retain our punk rock sensibilities by refusing to “sell out,” (plus, we don’t own enough nice clothes to make it past the door guy and hang with the elitist uptown snobs).

So what is a nigga to do? The answer: find more people like us. That’s right — we can’t be the only muthafuckers trapped in this unfortunate social dilemma. We had to find more people stuck in this same rut, form a secret order, and begin recruiting. So, much like the founding fathers did in 1776, we sat down at a table — drunk with resolve — and drafted a charter by which like-people can come together to take the doldrums out of our middle-of-the-road existence. On the back of a punk rock flyer we pulled from the wall of the bar, we scrawled the 10 original commandments of The Order of The Moderately Successful Club. Written in such a way as to separate the wheat from the chafe, the commandments are intended to provide us access to better quality pussy, more exciting leisure activities, exotic international travel, and to ensure that all of our drugs are nothing but the finest Schedule One Narcotics. Through the years, this mere skeleton of a document will become clouded with bylaws, amendments, bad interpretations, misguided revisions, and foreign translations. The original meaning will be lost through time, while the original members will move on to form more secret, more exclusive organizations that will insulate us from our mediocre demons of our past! But for now, this will suffice.

The Order of the Moderately Successful Club goes as follows:

1. Must have some form of GLOBAL RECOGNITION for something you are doing — be it in print, recordings, film or even the Internet. And no, your Geocities homepage, the classified ad in the “desperate singles section” of the paper, and your hair band demo from the 80’s DO NOT count!

2. Must have $300 of disposable income, which on any given night, you could squander on drugs/booze/strippers/whores and lose no sleep over.

3. Your level of fame must be at least to the point where other people will spend money on you just say they “hung out with you”.

4. Women between 80 lbs. and 400 lbs. are automatically included in group activities, though, of course, they can never be actual members. On a side note, the 400 lbs. top-limit was enacted to accommodate a certain charter member with a proclivity for the larger things in life. New members are not encouraged to experiment with wide loads – only experienced professionals should be throwing around that kind of weight.

5. Must have had sex with prostitutes in at least three different countries. Amen.

6. Must have done drugs with at least one famous person, but preferably more.

7. Must be tired of the same ole’ same ole’ and be driven by a desire to create a panacea for the boredom of moderate success.

8. Must have some form of self-promotional merchandise. This is very important, and is a likely stumbling block for prospective members. T-shirts, records, hats – hell, even a fucking keychain with your face on it will qualify.

9. Must have spent at least a cumulative $5000 dollars on lawyers during your life.

10. In an ironic twist of fate, the sheet of paper containing the 10th commandment was lost. What it said has long since been forgotten, but since we need an official sounding even number, I will make my first amendment and address the current needs of the group: Sexual predators like the Moderately Successful move quickly and exhaust the supply of local snatch-o-la at a furious pace. We need to be surrounded with better pussy! Therefore, you must be driven by the all-encompassing desire to bust creamy loads of hot man spackle in newer, fresher, hotter bitches’ teeth on a nightly basis. Sound good?

If you or someone that you know thinks they pack the gear so serve in our beloved corps – if you truly believe you deserve to be among the Moderately Successful, email me at jay@occash.com, and we’ll determine if you are indeed cut out for our most semi-prestigious organization. Until then, see you in the middle!

Peace,
Jay

This song was the first track on the “Bigger than Ron Jeremy” album. The song actually started with a jazzy-sounding song Scott had written called “I Want to Poke Amy Fisher” (which be 2002 was totally irrelevant) and got renamed to “A Marvelous Night for a Gangbang”. At the time I was messing around with wanting to write a song call “Last Man in the Gangbang” — just because it sounded so disgusting.

By the time we recorded (the very ill prepared for) “Bigger than Ron Jeremy” CD I had the idea just to merge my heavy song with his jazzy piece (considering they were both short) and in the key of E.

The result was magic, funny, and probably one of the best tracks on that album.

Check it out:
Last Man in the Gangbang

You can still buy a limited amount of Dick Delicious stuff with your credit card here.

For some reason, Homeland Security krunk that trusty terror alert to Orange this week and has specified Las Vegas as a possible target. If credible, here is the proof that Al Qaeda is indeed starting to slip. Don’t accuse me of giving advice to the terrorists, but, come on guys, attacking Vegas is just fucking retarded.

Sure, Las Vegas offers large crowds, with the opportunity to slaughter tons of infidals, but just who do you kill anyway? A few blue-haired one-armed bandits, Wayne Newton, and Carrot Top. Other than that, you’ll only be offing blackjack dealers, hookers, and reprobates.

You would be doing the United States a favor.

No, Jihad’s chance to destroy western scum pigfuckers does not lie with suicide bombers; what the terrorists need is suicide builders. Imagine the body count you could rack up if you built more Vegas’s! Think about it: a single strike would kill a quite a few people, but if you teach folks to die, you can count on them drinking, hookering, gambling, and drugging their way straight into open graves for years to come.

The sweet irony: You would be wasting Americans with the very vices that you claim to detest. Even better, death will come slow and prolonged — not the boring instantaneous expiration of life you’d get from a mundane plane crash. We’re talking agonizing deaths at the hands of vicious habits, addiction, and STDs. Once built, you guys can just sit back and enjoy the show. Maybe, you could even make a cool reality show for Al Jazeera for it — yeah, that would be tight! Just think how perfect the world would be: Sit back, relax in the desert with towels on your head, chopping bitches’ clits off, and sodomizing camels while the Western World plunges into ruin. You guys would make Allah proud!

6/6/06: It is a weird thing running a multi-million dollar company remotely. On one side of the coin — you can still make the commute from the your bed to your office while still scratching your nuts, but on the other side of the coin you have to trust that the people working for you are actually…well, how should we say it…working? It seemed fitting that all 6 members of OCCash converged from 6 different cites on San Jose, California (aka Silicon Valley) to meet with our webhost (www.jupiterhosting.com) on 6/6/06! From the airport we were picked up in a massive hummer limo and went directly to lunch — which was rudely interrupted by the running of the Special Olympics:

From there, we went for a tour of the sites in Silicon Valley (Google Campus), visited Jupiter Hosting datacenter (quite impressive), and went to some meetings.

Google has been my bitch for years!

High level discussions about Poppy.

Before going out that night, I went to our hotel room to change — I put on my jeans and felt something in my pocket. What could this be? So I reached in and found and eightball of Bolivian Marching Powder (cocaine)! I went through airport security and everything not even knowing it was in there! Fucking holy pope on a rope — I got lucky! When I met the rest of the guys downstairs to get in the limo, I said aptly…

“Guys, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news…”

We loaded the limo full of beer and Jaeger to sally forth to San Francisco. I got pretty shellacked by the time we had reached Morton’s Steak House an hour and a half later and by the end of the dinner my gums were radiating a fine hue of alabaster. We had heard the legond of Mitchell Brothers (www.ofarrell.com/)…it was time to see it for ourselves….

I’m not usually impressed when people tell me I “have to” see some strip club because I will love it — these are usually tourist traps for the hoy paloy. The O’Farrell Theatre was all of that and then some. They didn’t serve booze, and it wasn’t a strip club…I do not mince words here…this place was a straight up whorehouse and a good one at that! Within 10 minutes of being in there I was getting a handjob, blowjob, and titty fucking a very high quality and enthusiastic piece of tail for a mere $220. Fucking marvelous!

We busted out of there and rolled over to the Goldclub for some more lightweight stripper / drink action, got totally blind drunk, and piled back into the limo back to silicon valley. I wanted to hit the foil and you can imagine how confused our driver was when I kept making him stop to try and find aluminum foil and baking soda.

Back at the hotel, the sorryness continued. One unnamed member of our party decided that it would be a good idea to start combing craigslist for some hookers at 4AM. By around 6AM he managed to line one up. I was so gacked out that I knew a case of Viagra and a crane wouldn’t get my dick hard so I suggested they should take the her to another room.

Apparently, around 7AM, two unnamed members of our party stood around as the sun rose through the window, softserving a floppy tittied prostitute…

“Guys, it don’t get any better than this.”

6/7/06: Neighbor of the Beast: The next day I woke up feeling like a can of smashed assholes. We were staying in San Fran the next night so we took a limo back down to the city. The next night was slightly mellower, but not really. We went out for Mexican, hit some bars, but we missed the O’Farell closed at 1AM. We closed down the Gold Club and one unnamed member purchased one of the stripper for some afterhours fun and wounmd up banging her in her car with flat tires with waiting on Triple A and then subsequently trying to figure the best way to hide hicky wound from his girlfriend.

6/8/06: Last Caress: I has the latest flight out of SFO out of anyone in the crew. I had a few bucks on me and two hours to kill. You know where I was…right back at the O’Farell. In that past I’ve dissed the quality of the dayshift at titty bars, but this didn’t hold tre with the might Mitchell Brothers. Fucking excellent again!

I say a fond farwell and start walking back to the hotel to leave when I get a phone call from Ahn at Wantedlist.

“Dude, did you just call me?”

“No.” I responded.

“I just got a call from you and all I could hear with music playing and you and some chick talking.”

Then I realized what had happened. When my pant his the floor mid-colitis, the cell phone turned on and dialed the first number on it. It’s a great thing I don’t have a girlfriend named Abby!

Ironicly, on the way back to LA in SFO I was stopped and searched Muslim-style in Secondary by the TSA. It was a wise move polishing off that cocaine!

Viva Norcal. I love it.

Metal!

666.

To travel to India and punch a cow.

Just thought you should know.

Just caught their gig in LA last night…top 5 shows ever!

http://www.the-streets.co.uk/
http://www.myspace.com/thestreets

Catch them if they hit your town:

06-10 Los Angeles, CA - Henry Fonda Theatre *
06-14 Boulder, CO - Fox Theatre *
06-16 Austin, TX - La Zona Rosa *
06-18 Manchester, TN - Bonnaroo
06-21 Boston, MA - Avalon Ballroom *
06-22 Montreal, Quebec - Spectrum de Montreal *
06-23 Toronto, Ontario - The Phoenix *
06-24 Chicago, IL - Intonation Music Festival *
06-27 New York, NY - Webster Hall *
07-01 Roskilde, Denmark - Roskilde Festival *
08-05 Westmeath, Ireland - Hi:Fi Festival
08-26 Reading, England - Carling Weekend
08-27 Leeds, England - Carling Weekend

Just thought you should know.

A lot of people make a lot of assumptions about me — maybe because of the way I look or probably the shit that come out of my mouth. Fact is, I am uber-tolerant…I could give a fuck less about your race, religion, or sexual preference…if you are an asshole – you are an asshole.

Case closed.

Of course you cannot be tolerant without accepting other people’s rights to be hateful, bigoted, or racist if they want.

If you are truly tolerant, then you must respect anothers wish to be intolerant - that is true tolerance.

Just my 2 cents,
Jay