The Satyrist Archive. Past issues of The Satyrist:Trace the decline of Western Civilization through our archive.
Like most of our readers you are fascinated with the lives of the personalities we profile and worshipful of the gifted savants who create this sagely page. Obviously you desire, you crave, you simply must have more, more, more information about your favorite Satyrist celebrities. To satisfy this gluttonous craving for artificial factoid events, we have created Tales from The Lip a new column not available in any store!!!! Our compiler is the Guru of Gossip, the Druid of Disinformation---the venerable Lippy O' Toole. Lippy is a veteran bottom feeder in the Aquarium of Life, a tireless shoveler of celebrity dirt, a greedy plankton in the vast pool of pond scum. What follows is Lippy's first missive:
Noted chemically-enhanced body builder Mike Mozzarella has signed a contract
to promote Less than Zero, a new nano-condom specially designed for body builders. The product was developed by Hypothrust Industries, a small scale manufacturer best known for the original sincerity skin "Under Five." The terminally ambitious muscle maniac is also angling to have his own peculiar brand of narcissism brought to the cinema, having recently read for the starring role in Onan the Barbarian. Pee Wee Herman will direct..........After two decades of interminable legal wrangling, crotch rocker Lust Hemingway's only movie effort Escape from Monogamy Jail is due
to be released in Idaho............Molly Wacker-Stifley, soon to be former editor-in-chief of The Satyrist will resign her position to run for President representing the Natural Lawn Party.........Sidney "El Sid" Masculino, faced with declining revenues as a neutron bomb retailer has applied to work at a local Post Office.......Former Satyrist Business Editor Guru Lenny Ramakrishna has opened an Amway distributorship in Sri Lanka .
To further increase your knowledge base you may Return to the beginning
How can one describe the experience of interviewing the unnoted neo-gothic guitar poet known as Ennui? How can one describe the monotonous horror of confronting this inert yet masochistic muse? First off, finding the cemetery at 4 AM was not easy, especially given Ennui's cryptic directions to "immerse yourself fully in the vapor of death." This led your confused editor to the CBS fall television schedule, before stumbling onto the Death Becomes You Mortuary just outside of Salt Lake City. The confusion multiplied as your editor initially mistook a shriveled, barren shrub for The Sullen One. Finally, the scent of formaldehyde led to me to a particularly dark corner of the grounds, whereupon I discovered the Prince of Prozac resting against a convenient tombstone. Effeminate as always, he wore his trademark black French beret, tilted dramatically to cover his large, asymmetrical
bald spot. With bags under his eyes large enough to hold a week's worth of groceries and
a frown carved in perpetuity over his ingrown chin, one could not help but recall the final days of Vlad the Impaler. Though his lack of physical presence and still-born charisma are legendary, your editor was nonetheless stunned by Ennui's near inanimate nature. When one factors together his insipid recording career, emaciated body, self-pitying verbosity,
and chronic constipation, we are left with one compelling fact: this man is an absolute zero.
Ennui's recent recordings have been met with apathy of epic proportions. However, he has achieved a publicity coup of sorts by announcing in People Magazine that he is bipolar and also suffers from "Cosmic Fatigue Syndrome." He claims that his mood swings wildly between the polarities of depressed and melancholy. As the first documented case of Cosmic Fatigue he is said to feel the weight of the world upon his narrow shoulders and is unable to mate effectively. By the time your editor finished this arduous interview, Ennui's dysphoria had proven contagious. Next time I will wear a surgical mask.
You joined with Lust Hemingway in the legendary super group 3skin. How.... It is only through intense suffering and humiliation that one can truly acquire wisdom. This is why I joined the "super group" 3skin. The universally loathed Mr. Hemingway was of course the reputed leader of that musical monstrosity. While pondering the depths of his shallowness I learned much about the horror that is modern existence. Even the most jaded observer of the modern ethos watched in rapt horror as that preening weeny changed his spandex attire before each take. After six months in the studio and a worldwide spandex shortage, the only result was the abominable "Stairway to Cleveland." But, paradoxically, it was by working with that sawed-off poseur that I was truly able to see the stark yet glorious pain of life and death and death and life. For life is dark, very dark, and no amount of spandex hoarding or surgical masculinity enhancement can change this cruel yet beautiful fact. How did you develop the chord progression for "Stairway?" Life? Yes indeed, life is like an iceberg--cold and sharp, deadly in its beauty. We are like the "unsinkable" Titanic, steaming off toward a dark, inevitable fate of unrelenting agony. We see the fierce beauty of the crystalline mountain, yet miss the frigid majesty that lies in wait beneath the surface, preparing fresh miseries for those who dare frolic beneath the deadly waves. This is our world, our fate, our tragedy. This me must confront. Could we try to stick with the topic here? What was it like recording "Driller" with Tito Jackson?" Menial work can be so cleansing for the soul! A case in point was powerful guitar manifestation I created for Mr. Jackson's tribute to the dental profession. The solo actually was based on a previous recording of mine, "Hillbilly Hoedown." The "commercial" failure of this recording does not interest me. The entire undertaking was a victory for the soul. A dark, glorious victory of unremitting agony. Is it true that you deliberately got yourself hooked on heroin? You fool! You mock me with such impertinent questions. You no doubt assume that it was the fleeting "high" of heroin that attracted me. Though I waste my words on excrement such as yourself, I will explain. It was the pain of withdrawal, the majestic agony of separation that I sought. The spasms of insight, the cathartic vomit, the insolent flared nostrils of the devil himself--this is what inspired me to achieve my goal of addiction. The rusty needle connected me directly to the overwhelming despair that is human existence. And this empty plane upon which we "live," this empty, empty plane of "existence." How did you finally kick heroin? My solitary, agonizing journey through the barren desert of civilization led me a zoo outside of Cleveland. There, upon gazing at the witless countenance of the miserable yet majestic porcupine, I uncovered the lost secret of the ages. I was overwhelmed with a vision of enduring, infinite pain penetrating to the very marrow of my melancholy. I beheld vast storms of petulant ebony lightning, scorching my own emaciated body as it baked on a rotisserie. As it rotated, I glimpsed thousands of
glimmering needles piercing what remained of my flesh. The circle of life was complete--I had become the porcupine. Groovy. But how did that get you off heroin? Do you have a brain or is that a vacuum tube? It was then that I developed the concept of recreational or "extreme" acupuncture. At present, the glorious harbinger of death penetrates me with one thousand needles per session, each one unleashing a torrent of agony to the remains of the central nervous system. Does your health insurance cover that? At any rate, of which of your recordings are you most proud? Despite a sinister attempt by the recording industry to muzzle my muse, I have recorded dozens of works and have sold nearly as many. The most compelling of my works is Hillbilly Hoedown. Numerous Denizens of the Deep South purchased this seemingly innocuous "product," only to be seduced by the wailing sound of my banjo played through a wah-wah pedal. The purifying auditory agony thus engendered even caused some fellers to sell their pickup trucks. Some converted their gun racks to peaceful purposes. What does the future hold for Ennui? The foreboding sense is almost palpable. The shadowy unlit corners of the perceived world are in fact the center of all that is real. It is not with a sense of joy that I mouth these words, for the world is, in the final moment of terror, dark, very dark. Can the giggle of a happy child drown out the roar of a jackhammer? No indeed, for ultimately all is futile. and not even a decrease in marginal tax rates can change that. There is no escape from the darkness. I am Ennui.
Return to the Beginning
A Hair-Raising Experience: Dear Molly: One of my boyfriends, in a fit of prick, rubbed Velveeta all over one of my many Velvet Elvis paintings. The dry, crusted deposit has ruined the texture of his chest hair. I am most definitely not better off than I was four years ago. Please advise. Love Bambi. Dear Bambi: Just stick Elvis into a dish washer. Of course, the King will require more than common detergent to cleanse his mortal soul! Here is the chemical synthesis for the special Impressive Living Velvet Stain Remover. First, saute some pork rinds in 2 teaspoonsful motor oil (10W-30 preferred). Continue until the rinds acquire a charred, volcanic appearance. Then mix with a can of any auto wax product sold on late-night infomercials. Stir until the mixture resembles dried mucus. Then spread the mixture onto a strip of styrofoam, preferably obtained from your local Jack-in-the-Box ristorante. Rub the slab onto the chest hair until the Velveeta dissolves away, or until combustion occurs.
The Impressive Living Philosophy requires total commitment. Return to the Beginning and linger for a moment on every precious syllable.
I was thinking the other day about our old family kitchen as I was microwaving canned chili to go with my imitation cheese food product sandwich. My father, a humble neurosurgeon, was unjustifiably proud of our kitchen. Lacking the intelligence to design a kitchen himself, we were forced to hire a team of architects, engineers, and plumbers to do the actual work. Ignorant of the virtues of tile and linoleum, he insisted on a kitchen of marble and brass.
My sainted mother ( a District Attorney) often prepared her legal briefs while whipping up a batch of pasta. I'll never forget the evening we consumed a particularly bland batch of pasta, only to discover it had inadvertently been made from her files on the Manson case! I chuckle with fondness as I recall the stupidity of my parents. My mother, wasting precious time cooking meals from scratch, hardly aware of the forthcoming fall TV season. My father, attempting to apply his worthless brain incision techniques to the task of carving our Thanksgiving turkey.
Even now, after several decades of Impressive Living I remain mortified by my humble upbringing. Nonetheless the old kitchen on Main Street brings back many memories--after all it was our main gathering place. It was there that I announced my first menstruation to a rapt audience. Later that same year, I announced my first "accidental" pregnancy to a young Republican boy named Dan, whose family was in the newspaper business. Indeed, I first consummated my sacred divine right of fertility on the tacky, hand-carved solid oak kitchen table.
Presently, I type this reminiscence while sitting blissfully inert at a luxurious metal & formica kitchen table, purchased from a fork lift operator a nearby warehouse store. Tonight will be another example of Impressive Living at the Wacker-Stifley household. The aroma intoxicates me as a big batch of Top Ramen heats in the nuke, while a Spam animal roasts in the oven. My guests for this gala event will be my five children and their four fathers. In the 1990's, even those of us on the dole can
indulge in Impressive Living.
You have reached Satyrist Terminus. You may vist the Satyrist Archives or Return to the Beginning.
Send your feedback or unused food stamps to Molly's Mail
© 1996: Charlotte A., Michael R., Dennis L. Hayes
