On a recent evening, Richard found himself at Harbour Lights, shooting the shit with another hipster named Richard about the low score (1.3 out of 10) which Pitchfork had given to the Airborne Toxic Event's otherwise largely-lauded album. Our Richard was informed that Pitchfork had actually been known to award the occasional 0.0 award, most prominently to Travis Morrison, former leader of the beloved hipster band Dismemberment Plan. Learning this, your humble narrator had to see this review for himself. Here's an excerpt:
"At times, Morrison's matter-of-fact lyrics and fascination with history actually recall Schoolhouse Rock...A bigger problem with Travistan is Morrison's tendency to leave themes unresolved... The brutality from "My Two Front Teeth, Parts 2 and 3" returns on "Song for the Orca", in which he sings about zoo animals who dream of retaliating against masters who abuse them, but never makes it past the gruesome panorama. After years of turning hyper-detailed imagery into terrific stories, Morrison now seems to lack the sustenance or patience to provide closure on the books he opens."
Kip: "I thought all hipsters loved Schoolhouse Rock. And Electric Company. And kickball. And all things the rest of us gave up at age eleven or so."
Cl.thier: "I will buy this fucking album just to spite Pitchfork and their snarkiness."
Love him or hate him, Harry Lupus, boy werewolf, is back for another installment today, and the polls have been close lately, with readers torn between a desire for sticky, furry werewolf-sex and a need for adventure (with only Richard voting for simplistic moral lessons). But you'll get what you want in coming weeks, readers. Don't worry. And make sure to tune in next Wednesday, March 4, when a special guest writer is slated to step in and further the escapades of our horny friend!
"As the full moon rose outside his bedroom window, Harry Lupus woke up with a very furry boner. He began to howl. Somewhere in the night, a lonely she-wolf was waiting for him, and he set off at a lope to find that bitch.
Even at a half-mile’s distance, Muffy’s musky wolf-scent seemed to invade his nostrils and Harry felt the fine hairs on his balls tingle at the thought of mounting her later that night: indeed, he was starting to love the wolf-life.
But the wolf-life had not always been so easy. Harry remembered his first transformation a year ago, which began in the midst of a perfectly human heavy petting session in the back of Muffy's mom's Oldsmobile. One minute he was incompetently pawing at her bra and the next he had long wolf-nails which slit that bra clean in half. Harry looked at his hands in horror, then back up at Muffy, who smiled a were-toothed smile and whispered, "I'm one too, Harry," at which point he leaped from the car half-naked and ran home, a wolf-tail springing from the back of his tighty-whities and fur sprouting where there was no fur before."
"As it turned out, the town was lousy with werewolves. Those furry fuckers were everywhere. Somehow Harry had just not been aware of their existence, so engrossed had he been with Grand Theft Auto and masturbation and all the usual occupations of boys his age. But once his own transformations began (presumably the result of a "love-bite" from Muffy), Harry soon found himself out sporting with the packs almost nightly. Mostly it was innocent fun. Just raiding chicken coops and such. And of course random fucking in the park, which led the old codgers of the neighborhoood to shut their windows tight against the ceaseless howls of passion.
But one pack, calling themselves the East Side Lycanthropes, refused to follow local werewolf ordinances. They were known to sneak over to neighboring towns, such as Kent, and Mayfair, and rip out a throat or two. The police mostly avoided them in the same way they avoided local meth labs. It was easier to ignore. But Harry lately found himself wondering if they could be ignored indefinitely, especially now that some of them had been sniffing around Muffy's fine wolf-ass."