Archive for April, 2009

Show Us Your V

April 30, 2009

The 14th Annual Ken Socrates “Show Us Your Empty Vodka Bottle” Contest is under way and the first few entries have arrived, forwarded to me by Stig Marmoset who’s job it is too screen out the really sick stuff. Those ones he keeps for himself and, he tells me, will someday be featured on a future pay-site of his called

Here are the folks first out of the gate which, considering the contest actually started in March, shows us that your basic Ken Socrates/Vodka enthusiast isn’t usually all that familiar with the term “motivation”.

Mishii & Takeshi

From Japan, where they still call me Kenny Sock-San!, we see the founders of the recently disbanded Kenny Sock-San Fan Club, Mishii Jojima and Takeshi Ota posing at a Kyoto bus station where they were obviously too drunk to notice that the man they had asked to snap this novelty photo of them was actually Japan’s notorious Bus Molester, something they would both later regret. Also, we can once again see first hand just how utterly goddamn funny those Japanese really are.

T.J. Crenshaw

A lot of you will recognize Vermont’s own T.J. Crenshaw, winner of last year’s awkwardly titled How Far Will You Go To Prove Your Ken Crush? sweepstakes. In fact, T.J. has entered every single contest we’ve held at the KSWNO since 1997, many of them multiple times under various alias’. So just for the record T.J., not only is that entry showing you in an, ahem, a compromised position with that Stoli bottle been ruled morally inappropriate for the contest but wearing an afro wig and calling yourself Jon Remery isn’t really fooling anyone. Thanks for the interest, though.

Carla & Heather

Carla Mitropoulos and Heather Shale, both bartenders at a local sports pub called Beaters, are some of my favorite admirers and not just because of their positive outlook on life and fondness for nude beaches. No, when a man spends his days deeply submerged in profound intellectual pursuits, wrestling with savage spritual demons, burning with the fevers or pure, unrestrained creativity, he sometimes needs a soft, understanding bosom to cradle his world weary head. When the burden becomes too much for me, Carla and Heather are the ones I call because they understand me. Plus, they’re always up for shots.

Brenda & Trisha

Now these two look like fun. Baltimore natives Brenda Cleggland and Trisha DeGauss claim they don’t drink to get drunk but “it seems to happen everytime, anyway”. An inseperable pair of gal pals who’ve come to be known as The Sirens of Last Call, their unusual entry in the contest contained a marriage proposal for Stig and an inquiry as to whether he had any “burly cousins”. Word on the street is they were both charter members of Maryland’s first female fight club.

So those are the first entries but hopefully not the last. There’s lots of time to enter as the contest runs until whatever time it is I finally get sick of seeing this shit. So get drinkin’.

Send all enties to:



Hockey Gone Wild

April 26, 2009

It came to me in a Fever Dream.

I’ve been somewhat ill lately (thanks for all the concern you bastards) and one night, while laying in bed sweating, tossing and turning, strange hallucinations and thoughts swirling through the dementia, it came to me. Like a vision. Pure, shining and bright.

Hockey Gone Wild

A place to express the passions that I and others feel about the Sport of Hockey and they way it should be played. A place to lay bare the beating heart of all that makes it the ultimate Man’s Game. Honor, Toughness, Pride. A Code that must be acknowledged and obeyed or Justice will be dealt out through the fists of those whose job is is to do so.

It’s Old Time Hockey. It’s the Boston Bruins and the Philadelphia Flyers and the Chicago Blackhawks.

It’s Gordie Howe and Maurice Richard. It’s Terry O’Reilly and Cam Neely.

It’s Hockey Gone Wild.

Share and enjoy.


April 3, 2009

I went to a Birthday Party today. Okay, maybe not “went to” so much as “crashed”. Fucking semantics if you ask me.

I realized the stir craziness here at The Compound was finally starting to get to me when I found myself sitting atop the Tiki Bar in the south wing in nothing but a soiled pair of Green Lantern boxer shorts eating cold Beefaroni out of a can. Also, I noticed that I had apparently, at some point in the last 48 hours, carved the word “revenant” into my chest with an exacto knife.

So I figured I needed to get out.

I decided that something creative would help so I threw on a my hat and glasses and a nice windbreaker and headed directly over to the local Plaster Fun Time.

I fucking love plaster painting, man.

Fun Times With Plaster

So I guess there was a birthday celebration being hosted over there or something. Some seven year old and a dozen or so of his pals had the place pretty well taken over and they were all whoopin’ and hollerin’ and stuff. Whatever. I’m there to work, man.

So I got myself a smock, some paints and a penguin and took a seat. I think some folks thought I might be one of the parents at first so no one really bothered me early on. I was sitting next to Jimmy “The Cunt” Bradenson, a feisty little cock knocker from, I think, Elmer Bernstein Elementary School in Dover. I gave him the nickname. I figured it fit. That kid can party, let me tell you. He was telling me he likes to sneak up and watch his parents when they “wrestle naked” and sometimes likes to crap in his backyard and not tell anyone. Cool fucker, no doubt.

I was in the middle of telling my boy about how paint huffing can be a cheap high when some doughy, near-sighted lesbian decided so sidle up and ask me why I was making my penguin “anatomically correct” and whether or not I though it was “appropriate” to be puffing on a big fattie at a children’s birthday party, no matter if I kept it under the table.

The nerve of some hermaphrodites, I’ll tell you

So, I stood up like a shot and went off. “Because I’m a fucking artist, that’s why!!!” Then I screamed to the college kid at the counter, “Yo, Weekend at Bernies! Get Rosie here off my ass, motherfucker, or I’m gonna bleed the bitch!!!”

It sort of went downhill from there. Some WWF wannabe describing himself as a “chaperone” blindsided me from the left where everyone knows my peripheral vision is shot thanks to that speedboat collision back in ’90. So he got me down but made the mistake of knocking me into the shelves full of all the plaster casts, most of which came cascading down on us like a goddamned avalanche. I can take a hit, though, so when the dust cleared I shook off the rubble and was on my feet before the other dude knew what happened. Before he could even roll over I fucking brained him a lawn fairy.

Most of the kids and moms were scrambling for the exits at this point, which was too bad because a) the real fun was just beginning and b) they were going to miss out on some real educational shit involving human anatomy, creative use of curse words and hand to hand combat in confined spaces.

I targeted the Plaster Fun Time staff next for their inabilty to control what they should have known would be a volatile situation. If a wobbly, unshaven drunk guy in a fur hat and sunglasses with no pants on comes in and want to paint little plaster animals at 11 a.m. on a Friday, you know what? You might want to expect the worst in terms of how that situation might develop. Might want to call the manager. I’m not telling you guys how to do your jobs or anything, but when a guys sits down at the little picnic table and you can see his hairy balls hanging down beneath his smock, chances are it’s not a gonna be a good thing for anybody.

So I pelted the motherfuckers with everything I could get my hands on, unicorns, a bust of Betty Boop, a Yoda head, some little ducks, a fucking shitload of sleeping kitty cats, one or two garden gnomes. They hid behind the counter mostly but I rained down jagged plaster chunks of screaming hell on their heads for a good 45 minutes until I heard the sirens and slipped out through the storage area out back.

Wriggled through a vent shaft into the kitchen of the pizza place next door and hid out under a counter for a few hours ’til I heard all the sobbing stop and then took off for home.

Forgot my goddamned penguin, too.

Anyway. All in a day’s work.

Crabs & Lobsters

April 3, 2009

Check it out.

Hunted By Freaks

April 2, 2009

Something or someone is after me. I don’t know who, I don’t know why, but I know they’re out there in the darkness, just beyond the range of my vision. Waiting.

I hear the scratchings late at night when I can’t sleep, like the sound of a trapped cat pawing at a closed door, trying to get out. When I do sleep, I awake suddenly with that certain dread that someone was just in my room, standing there watching me while I’m unconscious. There are foreign smells in The Compound, weird odors that don’t belong and I’m not just talking about that half-eaten italian sub I left under the pool table in the east wing basement.

The other night I stood naked in the rain at the edge of the woods behind the property with a flare gun and some hedge clippers from 2 a.m. until dawn waiting for something to show itself. Whatever it was stayed just out of sight at the edge of the brush. I heard breathing. I saw the glint of yellow eyes. There were even some amorphous footprints in the mud that I could not identify the next morning but no measure of screaming taunts would draw it out.

I’ve got a connection in black market military surplus who says he can get me some old Vietnamese ordinance that might still be in working order so I’m going to rig the property up right; land mines, trip wires, motion sensitive search lights, deadfalls and covered pits full of sharpened sticks.

Unfortunatley The Valkyries, my all female militia security force, have left me. When I began to suspect one of their member of being compromised and made my suspicions known, they stormed out in protest. They know as well as I do that anyone can be gotten to, though. Anyone can turn when the right situation presents itself. All people have weaknesses, even six foot tall, gun-toting, leggy blonde guerilla warriors.

Even Dave The Bodyguard is unavailable right now after breaking both his ankles in an ill-considered, ill-practiced performance with Cirque Du Soleil last week. It was all for charity, so what can I say, but dammit, Dave, you should know that 300 pound guys are just not built for the aerial cradle.

My phone calls to Darkfaulker have been met with naught but a recorded greeting from Fong Qui Fang saying, “I’m sorry but Doctor Darkfaulker is interdimensionally unavailable right now. Please leave a message or a psychic emanation and he will get back to you.”

In contrast, I’ve been reluctant to call Gonz O’Lager for help because there remains a fifty-fifty chance in my mind that he could be the one responsible for this and I don’t want to play right into his diabolical hands.

So I’m all alone.

And someone or something is hunting me. I’m trying to get ready but it’s not easy without any knowledge of my foes and, as time goes on, I start to lose my edge. Lack of sleep and an overuse of various stimulants are taking their toll on my mind and body. But I need to remain vigilant. I have no idea when the attack might come or what form it will take.

I’ll do what I can but even I have my limits. All the homemade explosives and fireplace tools in the world might not protect me if things go really pear-shaped here. Luckily, if it comes to abandoning my post, I know the woodlands around here like the back of my hairly toes and it wouldn’t be the first time I had to go John Rambo out there.

So what I’m saying is this, motherfuckers.

Bring it.