Monday, April 25, 2011
Razorpud
Razorpud may represent all that is aging, castrated and market coopted about the last vestiges of 80s punk aesthetic.
But, more due to happenstance than plan, Razorpud’s embrace of Melanie does offer us a hallowed glimpse of The Holy Hottie Back Arch.
And we must appreciate. For it is firm, flexible, supple arch and gummy gnaw slappy pinch.
In 1996 I was assigned to a team put together to track a downed Malaysian Huey. There were 6 of us as we started out south of Singkawang, tracking inland and ever higher and deeper into the jungle. On day 3 the jungle became impenetrable, and we diverted further south to follow a small tributary of the Kapuas; the narrow river bank being our best access deeper into the rainforest. However, this took us dangerously out of our way. The river began to loop back in around and we soon became disoriented and ultimately lost.
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All during the 5th day we had the feeling the jungle was watching us. Surely it was, I thought. This part of the jungle teamed with life, but nothing we couldn’t handle. If picked our camps with care, set the watch, and washed or buried anything that came into contact with food we’d be fine.
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But the morning of the 6th day we know we were being tracked by something intelligent. Occasionally we’d hear bird calls that didn’t sound exactly like birds. And always a call from our left would be answered by a call from our right. We were being flanked. By noon, our trackers showed themselves. We had rifles at the ready, but they were on all sides. Regs are clear on this. Protocol is to lower weapons and deescalate until intentions are clear. The natives almost never mean harm, but warrior mentality requires them to answer any perceived threat with rapid escalation. And those short, harmless looking spears are almost always poisoned. Not good odds when even a scratch can be fatal.
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Roger must have missed class that day. Roger always acted too tough for his own good. He hit the nearest warrior solidly in the head with the butt of his rifle, knocking him out or maybe killing him, I don’t know. But another warrior stuck Roger deep in the kidney with spear before any of us could react. Roger went down and I know he was a goner. The rest of us had a choice: Custer’s last stand, or be as non-threatening as possible and try to make peace. Usually someone in the village would have done some trading or guide work, and therefore do some translating for us and help us talk our way out of this jam. We lucked out. The warriors didn’t start an all out fight. They made calming motions by swinging their arms palms downward, and took this to mean we should set our rifles down. We dodged a bullet, but would find out we weren’t as lucky as we thought.
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Off to the village we trudged. The 5 of us were herded into a cage about 3 feet high, and no more than 8 feet on a side. Not a single one of our pleas were answered in English, or any other language. Just a few sharp pokes, dangerously close to breaking the skin, and we retreated into our cage for a cramped and uncomfortable night.
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The next morning they came for Jimmy. They dumped Jimmy in a sack and hoisted the sack up with rope from a tree overhanging the village. About 6 or 8 warriors beat the sack with clubs for half an hour until Jimmy’s screams stopped, and the misshapen sack swung slowly from the tree, dripping blood onto the packed mud below it.
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That evening the villagers had feast. We got a small pot of dirty water and some grubs. In the morning it was Tommy’s turn. They tied him up and put him in the bottom of a small canoe near the perimeter of the village. Several village women came out of the forest carrying huge bushels of something, which they each dumped into the canoe and on top of Tommy. Tommy didn’t scream. He cried. He cried like a child that had skinned his knee, and he cried for hours before it was quite. I never knew what happened to him or what they did to him. We never saw any sign of him again.
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We fought like hell when they came for Rick, but nearly bought it when they chased Chaves and I deeper into our cage with the poised spears. They castrated Rick, and one of the warriors made a show of eating Rick’s junk whole. Rick was nearly out from shock and blood loss, thank God, when they tied him to a spit, covered him in banana leaves, and roasted him alive. I didn’t eat that night. I don’t know what was in the stew they served Chaves and me, and I never want to know.
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Late that night night Chaves and I finally made some headway sawing through the vines that held out cage together. We found a semi-sharpened stone buried in the mud and took turns working on the bindings. It was almost dawn when we made a run for it. Chaves took a spear to the back of the knee. I hope to God it was poisoned. I just wouldn’t have had the strength to carry him and kept on toward the river, leaving him behind. A small floating log saved my life. I hung to the far side of it and paddled while the spears bounced off the side nearest to the river bank where the warriors had stopped. They either didn’t swim or didn’t want to risk battling me hand to hand in the water.
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Either way, I paddled for 2 days straight, day and night, just to be sure they weren’t tracking me from the river’s bank. On that third day I pulled from the river by a friendly.
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So this should tell you something about this next statement. Razorpud is the most horrific thing I have ever seen in my life.
Mark Cunningham wears a helmet at Pipe that looks just like this guy’s ‘do. As a joke.
I haven’t seen a rooster like that in ages.
She has kind of a young Diane Ladd thing going on, I like it. I’d be willing to give this guy a pass if the top section of his ‘hawk wasn’t fuchsia. And he didn’t have chin pubes. Or that stupid smirk. Or his face pressed against Melanie’s supple, heaving bosom.
Melanie will be north of 200 lbs. by the time she hits 30.
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Razorpud is being held up by a hidden but very effective steel pole up his ass, not unlike the one to his left.
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Pole, not ass.
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Where is a tornado when you need one?
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What?
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Don’t you recognize the the I-failed-out-of-the-Tommy-Lee-school-of-life guy who comes once a week to collect the trash Greg puts out in the trash cans sill? Now go find Cindy and Jan before they get turned into whobag jump offs.
^ sill=silly damnit!
She’s giving the Eye. And telling us that she wants to be spanked.
For now, though, she is awesome, and would break me, and she’s aware of it. And I love her for it.
We’ve seen this douche before, and not just in our collective fever dreams. I think he’s that Alaskan mohawk guy from last month. In the comments thread, I believe he invited all of us to wherever it is he lives so that he could either kick our asses or f*ck our asses. Can’t quite remember which.
Looks like she’s wearing a prosthetic device on her leg either that or a dark sock
I do believe soy bomb is correct it looks like
Scoliosis Joel who’s on FB as Alaska Mohawk
Yeah, you guys are right. That is him
His shirt looks exactly like the paper towel that I toss after wiping down the Bbq grills. And what about Betty Rubble in the background? Am I seeing navel bling and the Holy Patch beneath the thinly veiled and widely spaced fishnet??
@ Dude
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Don’t think that went unnoticed. Egads, Son
@Dude McCrudeshoes
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That was as elegant as it was hyperbolous. It was as erudite as it was ridiculous. And it was as frivolous as it was ingenious. Son.
That haircut must be called a fomo.
@McCrude, you coulda just wrote “First”. Seriously though, well played. Given ol’ Hermit a run for his money.
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@soy bomb, I think he’s the one who called us internet losers and said we should go out and live it up instead of hatin’ but then he also wanted us to add him on Facebook. I also hate that I recognized him too. Maybe I need to start drinking to forget more instead of forgetting to drink more.
@dude
In the movie version, I’d like to play Rick’s severed junk.
Razorpud: Club Hair Tampon Specialist.
punk existed in the 80s?
i thought it was all broken-record electronica. and Outsider-esque fashion.
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30 years later, you still have to read the Outsiders in high school. and you still want to kill half the guys in that damnable novel.
I’m glad y’all didn’t tldr my long, typo-riddled travelogue. Only way I’d ever go back is maybe to drop Stackhouse off.
What a grand photo, Boss. I hope you enter it in the Guggenheim, or at least give it next weeks’ top prize.
It’s better to see Happy Face Hott and Douche together than either a sourpuss or a sillywuss.
However, should he drop her she’d suffer a fallen arch.
Not good.
But I get ahead of myself here.
They are frozen in a moment of Good Time.
I love it when Scotland’s Native Son Craig Ferguson fancies himself a Mohawk Douchebag.
Cried like a child who scraped his knee and cried for hours before completely. I never knew what became of him or what they have done for him. We have never seen any sign of him.