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Reviews - Murdocks - Bangsheet
Another pain in my ass: taking one in the keister for RockRoll glory
by Kurt Hernon
How many of you have been shot in the ass over rockroll music? Well?
Speak up if you have, because as of today I am a purple heart sportin'
rockroll junky. In fact, as I pound away at this keyboard I can feel
another pounding – the pounding of a .22 caliber hole in my right ass
cheek. It's covered in gauze that's taped to a spot on my ass that some
fat old nurse had to shave with a Bic disposable razor, but the throbbing
from my new “second” hole in my ass is very tangible. Thank god it was
only a .22 slug – a “girly gun” – but Jesus Christ it hurts like a motherfuck!
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive the goddamn Murdocks.
The Murdocks? Who the fuck is the Murdocks and what do they have to
do with a bullet that was lodged in your ass? A good question my friends…a
VERY good question. It's a question I have been asking myself since
I found myself face down on that gurney with Nurse Ratchet hovering
over me with a firm grip on my ass with one hand and a dull disposable
razor blade in the other.
The Murdocks, my friends, are three ne'er do well jerk-offs from somewhere
in a bad part of Texas (where are the good parts?) who sent me this
little four-song disc that contains a joyous racket that, while it comes
across as simple killer rockroll, is quite obviously an exercise in
some sort of new age mind control techniques. THAT'S how I wound up
with a bullet in my ass. These sonsabitches used this music to take
control of my fucking mind! This disc compelled me – subconsciously
– to take over the stereo at a friend of a friend of a friends friends
Hell's Angels party just to play it (see what I am talking about? ME
– at an Angels party? Goddamn this Murcocks music is some seriously
We'd hardly gotten through the early and brutal glory of “Dance the
Vomit Shakes” when I was approached by an eight foot tall ape, knuckles
scraping the pavement, and was asked to “turn that fucking shit the
fuck off” (his words, not mine!) lest he have to turn me into “the party's
cunt” for those boys who “don't care where their dick goes”. Needless
to say this caught my attention and startled me somewhat.
“What's the problem?” I asked the Cro-Magnon man. Not the smartest response
to a threat of being sodomized by a roomful of sexually confused and
repressed human gorillas, but it was my response.
“The fucking problem,” my new friend snorted, “is that when you first
put that fucking fuck shit on the stereo everyone thought it was gonna
fucking be fucking Van Halen.”
I smiled. “Van Halen? Really now?”
“Yeah,” the behemoth wheezed, “that first song starts just like “So
This is Love?” You know that song faggot?”
“I do know that song.” I wanted to tell him how much I liked girls,
but that seemed like a debate for another time and place. “And now that
you mention it, that opening does sound like Van Halen! Man, you are
goood! But this isn't Van Halen, it's the Murdocks and that song you
like so well my big dumb friend is something called “Death of a French
Whore”. I know…I know, you're thinking to yourself – wow! These guys
know how to write ‘em, sing ‘em, play ‘em, and name them! Or rather,
fucking name them! And you're right! These guys plow through four insanely
good fucking songs in under 15 minutes on this little gem.”
I could tell that music indeed was calming this most vile of beasts.
“We all fucking hate it,” he said dryly. “And all of us really hate
I shot the brut a grin. “Well then, I'll, um, I'll be moving along then.
Let me just get my CD out of the stereo here and I'll, um, be moving
Kong shifted his weight and I felt doom coming in on me. I grabbed my
disc from the stereo and then turned and threw my beer, glass and all,
into his face. Then I ran like hell.
I never heard the shot ring out nor did I feel it at first. I reached
my car and took off as quickly as my '98 Chevy Malibu would allow me
to. No one seemed to be following. It must have been the element of
surprise; the old “hit the biggest guy and run” theory – people will
either think your tougher than you look or that your crazier than Charlie
Manson. Then I felt my ass throb.
I slipped the Murdocks into the CD player and turned the sound up…wayyy
up. Van Halen introduced “Death of a French Whore” again and I smiled.
These cats in the Murdocks are the crazy ones; completely twisted fucks
that are probably survivors of the ash heap that was David Koresh's
“My Scarlet Purpose” howled through the cold January night. I howled
along with it. “There's something wrong with these boys,” I thought
to myself. Then I smiled. “Dance the Vomit Shakes” revs up and I lose
self-control. It's infectious. It's insane. It's rockroll in all of
its out of control glory.
The fucking Murdock's, a hole in my ass, and newfound rockroll glory…who'd
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