GEORGE took a mammoth hit off the bong, coughed, and leaned back in the beat-up recliner. Eager to get even more stoned, he took yet another hit, let the acrid smoke fester in his lungs, and closed his eyes. Death metal blared from the box stereo system, which was obscured by a seemingly infinite number of Olympia beer cans. George called the basement his room; others would call it a hovel. The windows had a greenish resin tint and a poster from Cold Lake era Celtic Frost was stapled on the dartboard.
“What is this,” George asked his friend Stan, who’d been crashing at his pad for a few days. “Is this Chris Barnes?”
George didn’t hear Stan. He repeated his question. “Is this Chris Barnes?”
Stan thought about it for a good hour before he answered. Stan was a mess. His NORML shirt had a massive bongwater stain; Cheeto crumbs were scattered throughout his beard and a half-eaten Ho-Ho was congealing in his cargo shorts. He was going for the dread look like his hero Chris Barnes and hadn’t washed his hair in weeks. But there were no dreads yet – just a homesick cockroach. He really wished he hadn’t agreed to the tattoo of Fred Durst’s face on his tricep before he discovered true metal.
“I don’t think so,” Stan said. “I think this is one of the new albums from Sevared. I think the cover is, like, a wolf devouring a mutant baby with two heads while humping a skeleton.”
“Are you sure this isn’t Chris Barnes? Is this Frank Mullen?” George wouldn’t relent.
“Dude, I’m positive,” Stan said. “Yeah, I mean it sort of sounds like ‘I Cum Blood,’ but I think this is one of those things we picked up at the festival.”
Time passed. It seemed like eons, like they were reaching back into the dawn of time as the music played. Countless bong hits followed before dreamless sleep.
GEORGE’s mom arrived home from her job clerking at the local bank. She called for her son, who despite turning 28 still lived downstairs. Worried, she walked downstairs. She found George passed out on the recliner and his friend Stan asleep on the couch. “Rock Of Love,” was on the television. What happened, she wondered? George’s promising career as a Starbuck’s barista was long gone. He didn’t earn his GED as promised. He dated one girl who gave him a flaming case of herpes. And he was always smoking the reefer, the devil’s weed. What could she do? She looked around the human carnage and walked over to the stereo.
Curious, she picked up a disc, something with a little green man on the cover. It was called The Weeding by Cannabis Corpse. She then went upstairs to find her Xanax and US Weekly.
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Best review ever?
on Nov 16th, 2009 at 09:29Nice story… where’s the review?
on Nov 16th, 2009 at 11:29…has someone been reading my diary?
on Nov 16th, 2009 at 16:37Best … review … ever!
on Nov 16th, 2009 at 21:29Horrible. The vocalist sounds like Chris Barnes/Frank Mullen? That’s the best you can wrangle out of this? Good thing I already like this band. Your review certainly doesn’t make me want to check it out.
on Nov 17th, 2009 at 15:32Great review. What more do you need to know after the picture conjured above? This is straightforward Cannibal Corpse-esque death metal with a weed-obsessed bent – it’s aimed directly at a particular audience, death metal fans who are dedicated potheads. From that, you already know whether you’re going to check them out or not. Kudos to the review’s author for finding an interesting way to talk about an album that could have been essentially summed up in the words “Do you like Cannibal Corpse? Do you like weed? Then you’ll like this.”
on Nov 17th, 2009 at 15:38BS “review”.
on Nov 18th, 2009 at 20:32