Archive for August, 2011

The Possible States Of Drunk

Posted: August 21, 2011 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , , , ,

So you’re going to get drunk. Wonderful. We approve. Douse your internal fire with alcoholic liquors, liqueurs, beers, wines…Jello shots. Whatever gets your liver dick hard. It’s all good. However, being drunk comes along with its own risks. Aside from the bodily damage that comes part and parcel with drinking (we’re all dying slowly so what’s accelerating it anyways?), the chief concern is of which personality you will take on while in your pursuit of drunken whoring. Let me explain. While drunk, nobody retains their sober, everyday persona. It just doesn’t happen. All of your flaws become either magnified or disappear in favor of other, more glaring and oppressive flaws. Even beyond that, there are various stock personae that most people can and will fill in, sort of like a sloppy clay figure mold. These, my friends, are who you could become, were the situation to warrant it.

Giggly: This is most definitely a hit-or-miss proposition. On one hand, any aspiring comedians in the bunch that you happen to be drinking with (we’re going to assume for the purposes of this article that all of these states of mind will occur while with other people, as opposed to sad and drinking alone) will receive a wonderful ego boost from you when you laugh at his stupid fucking joke about why airlines need to provide larger bathrooms. On the other, you will get really annoying really quick when you start snickering when a sobbing friend starts detailing her father’s chemo treatments. If the words “cancer”, “AIDS”, “abortion”, “breakup”, “heart” or “Obama” come up, walk the fuck away before you do any serious damage.

Depressed: The other side of the Janus coin with Giggly. Depressed means that NOTHING is funny to you. At all. A fucking Ku Klux Klan member could accidentally ignite his hateful cowl and be running around the room, howling like a burning turd got stuck in his buttpipe, while other drunkards laugh and take out their various members to attempt to extinguish the flames with righteous urine and you would be sitting in the corner, sipping on your damn Bud Light, feeling nothing but darkness swarm around your head. You, good sir or madam, are a downer.

Suicidal: The logical extension of the depression lot, the suicidal means that the booze is making nothing seem like it’s worth living for. Not the warm feeling in your brain. Not the constant throbbing erection you get from drunk girlfriends making out to fulfill a tawdry bet. Nothing. You are even more of a downer. Just sleep it off and pray for actual death in the morning when your head feels like a Macy’s Parade float and your bed is soaked in pee.

Horny: This is not your normal “Oh hey, I kinda want to blow my load on someone’s face/tits/ass/various other body parts” level horny. This is nuclear-grade, white-hot “If I don’t put my penis in or on something female tonight, it will literally explode. I will become a Ken doll” horny. This is horny that leads to choices like taking home a ‘trail mix’ woman. You know, the ‘grab bag’. One with alligator teeth, rhino horn, hippo ass…um…snake vagina. Bad news, basically. So if you feel the stirring in the nethers while drunk, especially one that feels like a turbine starting to rev up, get the hell out of wherever you are, turn on some Naughty America at home and fire one off into a beach towel because toilet paper will offer you no protection from the…ahem…coming fireworks.

Rage: It’s difficult to qualify how one comes to this particular state because it is 100% predicated on external influences. You could already be mad about various events throughout the day so anything further is just going to set you off like a car bomb in the middle of Tehran. OR you could be in any one of these other moods but something could happen – a spilled beer, a blown tackle, the bartender fingering your girlfriend behind the salad bar – and you will explore into a beast aflame. Here’s where you start to test out the verbosity you somehow have acquired that directly relates to how many curse words and different variations you can link in a stream of invective. For example: “Why don’t you fucking eat a rotten dick, you shit-staining, ass-sucking, cock-pulling son of a cum-stained whore?” Or something along those lines. Rage allows you to reach maximum hate, verbally.

Violent: Annnnnnd Rage kicks it up a notch. Words no longer are able to be formed. Instead, you have reverted to the primal reptilian state where the only things you can say are grunts and punching. This is where tables are broken, windows shattered, asses kicked and noses bloodied. This is the state of drunk where you are impervious to pain, instead using whatever hurts as further fuel for the jet engine that is your anger coursing through your body. You are in full Hulk fugue and only a cheap shot or electricity can Bruce Banner you once more.

Arrested: As you go from Rage to Violent, you soon transition from Violent to Arrested, less a state of mind and more a state of being.

Chatty: Certainly the least undesirable of the options at hand. When you are in this state, Miss Alcohol has reached her sweet little hand into the very depths of your brain and personality and found the little button that controls your inhibitions and with a quick press of her finger, turns that button completely the fuck off. When you are Chatty, you find social situations that normally would play your anxieties like a well-tuned theremin are no longer so onerous. In fact, you may well find yourself engaging in activities that in a sober state would leave you embarrassed and haunted, such as beer pong, playing Shot for Shot, or perhaps even fucking a sorority girl up the butt as she is bent over her school-furnished dresser. On second thought, Chatty is pretty damn awesome.

Offensive: Unfortunately, Chatty has a dark side that is revealed after time. When the inhibitions are shut off, it does truly create a situation where although you may be able to be more gregarious, you also lose that well-honed ‘Should I Say This?’ that normally keeps you out of trouble. That means that, say, were you to happen upon an unfortunate individual whose struggles with a recurring venereal disease have been socially documented, where in a normal situation you would give them a friendly hello and a nod to let them know that you still value them as a member of society, here in Offensive Mode is where you will instead start applauding and yelling ‘Clap on! Clap off! It’s the Clapper!’, creating a very unpleasant social meme for the person for the duration of their college life. Well done, asshole.

Philosophical: We’ve all been there. Drunk and sitting on the Quad, watching the sun rise. Rambling incoherently about the nature of being. Believing that words of gold drip from our tongues as we contemplate just what it means to be human. Yes, friends. You are Philosophically Drunk and you will have no damn idea what the hell you were talking about as soon as you sober up.

Messy: You are just so damn mad at your fucking suitcase. Go away, suitcase! To hell with your being on the bed! Until the next morning when you realize all your shit was in that suitcase and now you have to clean it up hungover. Awesome.

Rogue: Unless you have experience dealing with someone that falls into this category (Pred3000, cough), you can’t really understand what it is about. On any drunk night at any given time, the Rogue can be any and all of the above. Angry one minute, sleeping the next. Offering to burn CDs one minute, screaming Guns ‘n’ Roses the next. Jabbering on about the social implications of music one minute, trying vainly to hit on a girl the next. The Rogue is just that: rogue. You cannot accurately predict the state of drunk this person will be in until they are already in it. It’s both very funny and dangerous.

Batshit Fucking Insane: The worst of the lot. All I can say for this one is that if you have experienced someone in the throes of it, you will understand. For the rest of you, God help you.

You may not always choose to get drunk and you may not always find sites with helpful advice for you, but when you do…make it Dan Eats Cat Food. Deuces.

Your Metal Baby

Posted: August 20, 2011 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , , , , ,

Children are terrifying, let us come to that agreement right now. They’re little and fragile and as a parent, you would be in charge of forming their minds and bending them to your will, which sounds pretty awesome but also requires financial and time investments that…well…are just inconveniences, especially right now. Worse yet, their taste in music is pure boring pablum. Raffi. Barney. Um…Cher. Other one-name monstrosities that treat music not as an art form so much as a money-swollen cow, heavy with cash, that they can milk directly into their bank accounts. Boring, basic chord structures and lyrics that wouldn’t offend the most sensitive pussy liberal politician or over-paranoid Nancy Grace histrionic.

The point is that you need to, as a reasonable and presumably awesome future parent, take steps to create and recognize the innate potential of embryos to become hard-rocking babies. Thus, we’ll show you what to do to make and then understand Your Metal Baby.

First, let’s get going with conception. Barry White? Absolutely not. Sting? Hell no. Marvin Gaye? Your kid is…gay…e. No, if you want a truly metal baby to immediate start gestating, you have to do the do to a little Metallica, mixing in some Megadeth for a little ironic fuckin’. Get that sperm nice and jacked up.

Okay, so your badass spermatozoa managed to infiltrate her Castle Eggcell and now you have a kid growing in your lady’s body. Set aside the fact that SOMETHING IS GROWING INSIDE A HUMAN BEING HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT ABOUT for a moment and understand that you now have some obligations. First and foremost, the belly music thing. In some studies, babies growing in the womb are positively influenced by headphones playing classical music against the belly. Something about the music makes them smarter. Well you know what to do, right? Blast metal through the headphones instead. Instead of Bach, Skid Row. Instead of Mozart, Slayer. You get the picture. Make that baby well-versed in the entire catalog of the metal industry before he (we’re just going with the assumption that the child will be male, otherwise much of this article gets really weird…well, weirdER) even is outside his mother.

Now it’s time to birth this little parasite. Some parents want nice soothing music to accompany the birth. That way, the mother will be more relaxed and ready for her spawn to burst forth from her vagina like a little flesh-colored James Cameron-style Alien. The metal baby, however, must necessarily come out to Iron Maiden. We would suggest “Children of the Damned” or even “Be Quick or Be Dead” if you want the baby to have an ironic welcoming song.

Your first sign that your child is how you want him is very simple and easy to tell. He will be pulled out throwing the horns. Not just his little fingers curling involuntarily. We’re talking horns up, thumb folded under, and his wrist moving it forward and back. Real horns.

Oh yeah. And if your kid is SUPER-metal, he will be born with a goatee like a tiny, adorable Scott Ian from Anthrax.

Naturally, with the horns and the goatee as well as frequent headbanging, family members and nosy concerned strangers who should mind their own fucking business will be concerned that your metal baby has had some problems while in the womb. They may worry that he has cystic fibrosis or something like that. Never fear. All you do is tell them that your baby contracted a case of Fetal Alcohol Awesomeness and that you’re working through it as a family. Then headbutt them to the ground and roar in their face.

Of course, your metal baby still has to eat and solid food just isn’t possible, although he’ll assuredly still try to gum a steak if you put it in front of him. Normally, milk from the mother will be just fine for the little rocker, but sometimes she’s just not around or is showering or sleeping or crying softly in the corner about how her life is over now that she’s had a kid and is feeling unattractive. What to do? Easy. Bottle-feed him whiskey. The essential nutrients in a bottle of Jack Daniels’ will prepare your child for the real world and the alcohol will relax him and allow him to sleep through the night, giving you time to jack off in the backyard since the mom still probably won’t want to have sex or give you a blowie.

Your child will want attention and you may not be there to immediately see that he desires such. He will make noise but he won’t make the noise that you expect of him. If your kid is a metal baby, he doesn’t scream – he falsettos. You’ll have your own little Robert Plant to entertain you.

Eventually, your child will learn how to speak. Yes, yes, ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ will be there because those are the first syllables children figure out. Those barely count. No, if you played your cards right and did your job, your child’s first word will be ‘amp’. And even better, his first phrase will be ‘I am Iron Man’.

This comes more down to luck than anything, but he may be able to think outside the box and do math (when it reaches that point) in a Base 11 system because Base 10 is too low and he wants to go one more. Because Spinal Tap.

Finally, as your metal baby sleeps peacefully in his crib, curled up in a vintage Def Leppard t-shirt, hook up a stereo system with a lot of speakers and play ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ all night. The pure power of beautiful metal in that song will comfort him if he wakes and will give you a chance to get the mother of your child drunk and maybe horny enough for a quick 1-2-3 in the laundry room. That way, everyone is happy. Well, except the neighbors, especially if they live in an apartment but fuck them. They can have their tapas and Neutral Milk Hotel and organic faux-leather Birkenstocks to go with their vegan-friendly, West Coast stoner-slash-East Coast progressive baby daughter with large fake black glasses and dyed hair. Your metal baby is gonna be fuckin’ that hippie baby in about sixteen years. COUNT on it.

Basically, what we’re saying here is to make your child as awesome as possible as early as possible. That way, the awesome will drip off of him his entire life. Unless, of course, he rebels as a teenager and becomes really into 90s pop music but…come on. Since when do kids ever rebel?