Issue 43:

So Long And Thanks For All The Jewel Cases

The rumors you may’ve heard are true (except for the part about the goldfish, the fur-lined gloves, the bowling shoes, and a device known as “The Helmet”): Lollipop is going quarterly.
Scott Hefflon, Prelude to a Lick

“96 Tears.” …Y’know it, that repetitive two-note organ riff, “You’re gonna cry, cry, cry 96…” – where that number came from, not 98, not 900, I guess only ? (born Rudy Martinez, but he legally changed his name to the interrogative symbol after bein’ persuaded to do so by aliens from the future, yeah, the acid really was better back then) really knows for sure.
Jon Sarre, Sarre-Chasm: Ruminations on the ? Reunion and Another Thing…

Geez, maybe I’m getting old. After years of wallowing in drink, might I be floating to the surface of sobriety? Could the terrible phrase “growing up” actually apply to me as well?Nah.
Lex Marburger, Liquor Lecture: Temperance

I believe that this falls into the category of Bank Piano. That is the tinkling, almost recognizable music that is passionlessly executed by either a real person or, for novelty’s sake, by a player piano plunking stolidly from its corner of the bank while you are waiting to deposit your penny rolls.
Jamie Kiffel, Ivy

A remix album! You shouldn’t have. No, really, you shouldn’t have. I’m not a big fan of remix albums, believing them to be nothing more than overpriced CD singles. I’m not saying remixes are bad, but they do get tedious after a while (my personal hell will include the “I’m Too Sexy” single with the 15 different versions, played continuously for the first millennium of my damnation).
Chris Best, Sheep on Drugs/Collide

Jesus, what an imbalanced world. We spend years waiting for the sequel to Loveless, the new Kubrick movie, or for J.D. Salinger to poke his head out and prophesy how many more years of bad coming-of-age novels we can expect, compounding expectations to the point that they can’t help but disappoint when they finally come to pass; at the same time, there are some things we can’t hope to keep up with, being so ever-lovin’ prolific that we can’t fully grok how good they really are.
Nik Rainey, The High Llamas

I… see no need to ever listen to Gonkulator. Turn on the blender, shuffle your silverware drawer, and grunt like a pig for 40 minutes to achieve the same effect.
Scott Hefflon, Gonkulator

In… a voice that’s going to grow louder and louder in these reviews until I have to go out and buy a pair of those squishy yellow ear plugs that you… stuff in your ears, where I’m certain they’ll get sucked into my brain and clog an especially vital flow of blood causing a slow and extraordinarily painful death, I’m going to repeat myself by saying that it pisses me off to no end when I hear a band for the first time live in concert, am convinced that they are the best thing since Pike Brewery’s Old Bawdy #2, and when I actually get a copy of their CD, feel like I just knocked back a can of Coors Light.
Doug Sery, Today is the Day

I’m a professional, though (this band sucks), I gotta do what I gotta do, regardless of my own personal taste (this disc sucks). I can be unbiased (every song on this record sucks). Just cuz I feel one way about somethin’ (to recap, this band sucks) doesn’t mean that everyone’s gonna feel that way (I’m not kiddin’, they really suck). The fact that there isn’t even one good song on this record shouldn’t stop you from runnin’ out and buyin’ it ASAP, especially if you’re the type of person who watches ’80s movies and digs the “rockin'” soundtrack and wonders why Lou Gramm and John Cafferty never collaborated on a project (as it is prophesied in The Book of Mormon).
Jon Sarre, the Original Sins

“Take Ellen. Horrible show… predictable, unfunny… But you make her queer. Wammo! Suddenly all those dead jokes can get up and walk around again. Everyone loves it. Gay America loves it because finally they have a national character who acts just as lame and stupid as all those straight people on TV. They love that equality crap. Straight America loves the show because they see a gay character acting just as dumb and predictable as Roseanne or Bill, or Tim…. Pimping dykism to sell Pepsi. Everyone bends over for hegemonic order. TV conquers all… That reminds me, you think Rite-Aid’s open? I got a sudden urge to get me some new razor blades.”
Adam Haynes, The End of the End, Part Two

“The Lord works in mysterious ways” has gotten God-following folk through many a nonsensical situation, so I don’t think it’s much of a stretch for us to not understand this movie. It’s certainly a lot more interesting than filming my stupid ass walking to a 24-hour convenience store in the middle of the night ’cause I just ran out of toilet paper.
Scott Hefflon, A Life Less Ordinary

I went to the doctor today – my ears were infected and all I could hear was this horrible low buzzing that sounded like pickituphuhhuhpickituphuhhuh. After a thorough examination, my doctor sighed heavily and put his hands on my shoulders. After a long, worried silence he told me, “My little rude girl, dear, sweet little rudegirl… In all my years of practicing medicine, I have never seen such an advanced case of skapunkdacitis…. There is nothing more threatening to your health and sanity than mixing the holy golden ska with half-baked Beasties-style blurtings and uninspired chugging guitars. Not to mention that newfangled god-awfully terrifying virus of jumping up and down at ska shows that’s been going around.”
Margo Tiffen, Hepcat

I hate to fly. When someone feeds me the line about how “more people are killed cutting their fingernails than in airline accidents,” I’m hard pressed not to tear off the speaker’s arm and beat him to death with the bloody stump.
Mike McCue, 37,000 Feet Over Salina, Kansas

Duiszk cocked his head to one side and headed his cock to the other. He tried to chew at this thought, but couldn’t seem to grasp it. Rather than admit his dental ineptitude, he thoughtfully munched on his tongue instead. Meanwhile, Jesus was trying to absolve Fejod of his troubles. It had always worked in the good ol’ days, but now Jesus was swelling up like a blowfish. Fejod became cross with him and fastened him to the wall with push-pins…. Jesus felt badly shown up, and asked his Dad if he could come home now.
Scott Hefflon, Jeff Pare, and William Ham, In Search of the Point

“I imagine myself sitting on a grassy hill under a lone lemon tree vibrating in the sun, dreaming away an afternoon fishing the Au Sabel with a half pint of whiskey, but the reality is that I live in a stinking city bombarded by a plethora of advertisements selling hot pussy and green gobs of slop called a flubber, court cases and judicial review TV attempting to give us a taste of pure justice, government interventions deciding the fate of my children’s lives before they’ve lived, congressmens’ fat wives censoring words they cannot pronounce, Bill Cosby in a tap-dancing contest, and an ever-ingraining capitalistic ideology that says this: `If there are 9 races now, why not have 10, because 100% of the losers will stick around for that last race.'”
Austin Nash, Nashing Teeth: Say a Prayer If You Have a God

“Don’t cock me under, mate. Don’t cock me under, right?” That’s one I just heard. In the pub. At least I think that’s what I heard: I can’t be sure because I didn’t dare (I didn’t) bring my Oxford-educated second-generation novelist form too close to them to hear them right, lest I get a right nosing from them. That’s another one, another bit of yob-slang I overheard: “Don’t cock me under, mate, or I’ll give you a right nosing, right?” Put that in the mouth of a quim-quaffing Cockney layabout, give him a dingy white van and a name like Kif or Biro or Shizz, and I’ve got a character. A walking metaphor to counterbalance the protagonist, who himself is a walking metaphor.
William Ham, The Culture Bunker: Vanity, Thy Name is Lucre

A team of plainclothes agents descended upon our car with a grim determination: “Open-your-fucking-doors!” a man shouted. “Do it, do it!!!” I shrugged and got out of the car, and felt the hot roof of the taxi against my cheek, eight or nine hands patting down every square inch of my body. After extracting the wallet from my back pocket, an agent retrieved the bogus press card I had earned from the three hours I once spent at the copy desk of the Salt Lake Tribune.

He smiled crookedly. “We got ourselves another maggot trying to cause the President trouble.” Then he turned to my driver. “And who are you: Abu Nidal?”
The cabbie bowed. “My name is Hamza Al-Assad. I am strong supporter of U.S. Democratic Party.”
“Oh bullshit,” the Fed snorted. “You’re all terrorists. It’s in your goddamn genes… and what’s that smell?”
Todd Brendan Fahey, Down on the Farm