You can now buy Fantasy Guys tees and tanks on our store!!
This morning at around 6:00am I awoke to several alarming voice messages on my phone. The first sounded like a man groaning in pain – the audio was very crisp and clear, which made the grunts and moans even more disturbing. This initial voicemail only lasted for about 10 seconds and ended with the man screaming what sounded like “YEP!!” The next message, from the same number, was what seemed like the same man, giggling like a baby. In the background I could hear what sounded like someone slapping a wet piece of meat against the wall. I checked the area code on the number and discovered that the calls were coming from Miami Florida.
I racked my brain wondering who I knew down there and why I would be receiving such strange messages so early in the morning. Then it hit me – My cousin and business partner Gabriel was in Miami for the weekend attending a ball claw convention. Gabe and I are in charge of a small local shop that sells ball claws and small balls. If you’re not familiar with ball claws, then let me give you a little lesson; ball claws are the next BIG thing for in home entertainment. Basically, a ball claw is a small clasping mechanism that is primarily used to pick up small balls. When you purchase a Ball Claw, you also receive a basket of small balls. Simply dump the basket out around your house and enjoy hours of fun picking up the balls and putting them back in the basket. In short – these things are going to change the entertainment game!
Anyway – after realizing it was probably Gabe on the other end of the line, I got worried. In the first voice message Gabe seemed like he was in a lot of pain. In the second he was laughing hysterically. My first thought was that Gabe had gotten ahold of some bad acid. Gabe loves doing psychedelic drugs and often times I find him in various nooks and crannies around the store hiding and staring deep into space. Once I found him in the cupboard! Another time he came into work wearing tennis shoes with NO SOCKS! I quickly called the number back but there was no answer. I texted the number instead – “Gabe is that you? U doing O.K.?” A little over an hour later, I received this picture:
I didn’t really know what to think other than that Gabe was probably on the beach just enjoying a nice day. But how could I know if this was Gabe at all? I sent another text – “Gabe is that really you? Could you send me an image of yourself?” About 20 minutes later I received this:
OK – so now I knew this was definitely Gabe on the other end. Even though I had visual confirmation, I was still worried. I called the number again and finally got Gabe on the line. He explained to me that he had left the convention and stumbled onto the beach after taking some pills an elderly Russian man sold him next to the port-o-johns behind the convention center and that now he was on a mission to excavate a giant prehistoric snake named ahk – mahn that lived under the sands of Miami beach. According to him, this was a creature that had some mystical power over him. He went on the tell me that if he didn’t perform ahk – mahn’s mandate (AMM) then he would be punished by ahk – mahn’s servants (AMS) who manifested themselves as massive round orbs (MRO) and engulfed ahk – mahn’s disobedient minions (AMDM). I was beginning to think that Gabe may have gotten ahold of some sort of hallucinogenic drugs.
I asked Gabe if he had talked to our Ball Claw sales rep, Gary, at all, and if he had spoken with Gary about the deal we had been attempting to broker via email for the past couple of weeks. This was a big one for us; we needed more Ball Claws – and fast! So, we wanted Gary to go above and beyond our standard order of Ball Claws, as well as Balls! We needed 10 times more claws AND BALLS! Gabe had no idea what I was talking about and it was clear that he had not made contact with Gary. I got online and booked a flight to Miami.
24 hours later, I was walking along Miami Beach frantically searching for Gabe but he was nowhere to be found. Gabe would not answer my calls or my texts until I had been searching for hours. These are the photos I began to receive as ‘clues’ as to where Gabe was.
After hours of exhausting and frantic searching – I finally found Gabe. He was lying in a massive hole he had dug; his eyes staring straight up at the sun. He was fully erect. I climbed into the hole and drug him out – this made quite a scene! I shouted at Gabes face, “Where is Gary?! We need those Ball Claws!”, all that Gabe returned was a vacant stare and a drooling agape mouth. I hurled Gabe over my shoulder and marched towards the convention center. When I made it to Gary’s booth at the Ball Claw convention, I smashed Gabe down on the table and began screaming at Gary. “HELLO GARY, GABE AND I HAVE MADE IT TO MIAMI WE NEED MORE BALL CLAWS AND BALLS. WE CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THESE REVOLUTIONARY TOYS AND THEY ARE FLYING OFF THE SHELVES. PLEASE GIVE US WHAT WE DESIRE – BALL CLAWS AND BALLS TO SELL. WE MUST PROVIDE OUR COMMUNITY WITH AMPLE BALL CLAWS AND BALLS.” Gary took a moment to let it sink in. He looked at me, then down at Gabe, now fully unconscious on the table. The serious look on his face slowly turned into a sly grin, “Absolutely baby…” me muttered. Those nearby who had overheard the exchange began to applaud as I started to tear up and sob. I grabbed Gabe and ran as fast I could to the airport. We flew straight home and waited patiently for our new (massive) shipment of Ball Claws – AND Balls! When they came it was like Christmas morning. That was a week ago – and guess what? WE HAVE JUST NOW SOLD ALL OF OUR BALL CLAWS AND BALLS! SOLD OUT BABY! Please visit our store next week to purchase a Ball Claw and a basket-o-balls to play with. Thank you so much and have a blessed day!
- Meat's newest EP is now available on CD-rom and all streaming services! Grab one from the store!
It is my firm conviction and heartfelt belief that the dome of a man's head should always remain clean and devoid of all hairs. I plead with you to remember dear brothers, that bald was the pride of our forefathers and that bald is indeed pure.
Whether defect on the part of our own character, or as a ploy born in the foul hearts of our great nation's enemies, I cannot say for sure - but I do know that the growth of our shameful locks is destroying us. Now, I do not suggest that a woman (foul beast that woman is) should ever be so bold as to clear her scalp of hair. Womankind is by nature a horrible and irrational phenomenon, and as such she should be clothed with fur as the beasts.
Yes, man is above the beasts and man should be bald and pure. Now, some may protest "but my head gets cold and the sun does so horribly fry my scalp!" Oh, you poor wretched idiot, wearing a head covering (such as a baseball cap or a cowboy's oversized hat) is by all means permissible. I myself don a fedora on occasion and wouldn't stop another from doing the same as often as he wished. Yes, your anxiety over the welfare of your scalp once exposed in glorious baldness is unnecessary.
So you see, there is no excuse for the growth of hair atop a man's head. I can only hope that in due time all will come to realize the wretchedness of hair and the utter beauty of the fact that bald is pure.
We all know what day it is – 4/20! Today is the day I transcend my default human form and devote my physical body to marijuana. As I woke up this morning, my eyes shot directly to my calendar, where I saw the first 19 blocks of April adorned with my signature ‘slash’ mark. This denoted that those particular days had passed. Naturally, the first block with no slash mark was the day in which the viewer would find themselves observing the calendar. I was sure right then and there that it was 4/20!
I knew what I had to do. I had to physically modify my body into the ultimate smoking machine. I realized that this would give me immense pleasure and I leaped out of bed energized by my new mission. The first step in fully realizing a plan to devote myself completely to cannabis was to transform my mouth and esophagus into a device used for the inhalation of smoke. Eating, breathing, and speaking would now take a backseat to inhaling the smoke produced by burning marijuana. I quickly gathered the materials I needed at home depot and hurried home.
As I attempted to shove various pipes I had purchased down my throat, I realized I was in over my head, and would need to surgically implant the pipes, so I called my cousin Gabriel. Gabriel is a first year student at the Veterinarian Technician’s Institute, so I knew he would be the perfect man for the job. Gabe arrived about an hour later and I told him what I needed done. I instructed Gabe to cut into my torso and implant the pvc pipes where the airway at the back of my mouth hole connected to my lungs. I also instructed Gabe to remove my teeth and install a round metal bowl so that I could light up right inside my mouth.
Gabe looked at me hesitantly and explained that he had no surgical experience. He told me that on only one occasion he was present at an operation during his studies and that the procedure was on a horse. I honestly didn’t care. Gabe hooked me up to an i.v., heavily sedated me with horse tranquilizers, and began the operation. The next thing I knew, I was waking up with a brand new pipe in my throat. I was ecstatic, but before I lit up my first bowl, I realized something. My body has many holes, not just my mouth. Why not utilize all my holes to consume that sweet smoke? The quest was on!
After gathering more materials and more horse tranquilizer, I drew up some schematics and handed them to Gabe. Gabe was even more hesitant this time, so I slapped him across his face as hard as I could and threatened to shoot him with my gun if he did not operate on me– things went smoothly after that. Four grueling hours later, I awoke in my bed, very sore and wrapped in bandages. I called for Gabe but received no reply. A small piece of paper sat on my bedside table that read “Good Luck :( - Gabe.” As I peeled away the bloody bandages, tears of joy began forming in my eyes. Finally I had become what I always dreamed – a human being designed solely for the purpose of inhaling marijuana smoke.
I waddled to the bathroom so I could gaze into the mirror and fully discern the thing that I had become. A clear tube now shot out of my anus and wrapped around my torso where it ended at a bowl mounted to my chest. Two small tubes were now wedged in the corners of my eyes and connected to the same bowl. My nostrils had been widened greatly and were now also adorned with tubes connected to the ‘mother bowl’ mounted on my chest. My head was now completely shaved and Gabe had installed incense mounters into my skull. This way, I could burn a little incense while I toked up! Finally, I turned around to reveal the tattoo I had instructed Gabe to install. Bob Marley’s face now covered my entire back. Underneath was a small pot leaf tramp stamp. I felt absolutely complete. As I lay back down in bed and suck down that sweet smoke, I began to feel completely calm and at ease. I thought to myself that I had neglected a few holes though – namely my ears and urethra. Those holes would have to wait until next year. My time had come to toke and smoke. This was the man I had always wanted to be. Happy 4/20 guys, time to toke up!
When it comes to famous street artists, there are a few household names; Art Master Tony, The Street Doctor, Painting Guy, and Spray Boy immediately come to mind. However, recently I saw something that led me to believe there is room for one more name on that coveted list of legendary geniuses who grace us with their alternative, urban art and force us to look in the mirror and realize the warped, twisted hellish cycle we subjugate ourselves to every day as we slave away in front of computers in our corporate prison cells. This is the story of how I discovered true art – and along with it, a manifesto of my pure admiration for the mastermind who has been creating such incredible, though provoking beauty throughout my city.
It was high noon on a Sunday and I was taking a regular stroll to my favorite dumpster – the one behind the Captain D’s a few blocks from my apartment. As I approached the giant green rusty receptacle, the buzzing of flies grew ever louder. It was a brutally hot day and I could feel the skin on my scalp itch as it expanded in the face of a harsh and unforgiving sun. On days like this, the heat was also quite unforgiving to the contents of the dumpster, and indeed, as soon as I became aware of the buzzing flies, the stench of rotten deep fried sea food which had been baked in the summer heat grabbed my full attention. I was on cloud 9.
I noticed that a shiny black trash bag was trapped in the lid of the dumpster. Its opening hung out of the top like a loose sleeve. This was a great sign – the dumpster was full! I sprinted the remaining 20 feet or so towards the garbage heap and wasted no time. I pushed the lid open as hard as I could and over a dozen bulging black bags revealed themselves to me. It was like Christmas morning – each bag was a gift with exciting, unknown treasures to offer me. I grabbed the fattest sack I could find and tore into it like a ravenous raccoon. It was FULL of rotten fried tilapia fillets. Perfect. Could my Sunday get any better?
I was only about 6 or 7 lbs in when I heard the familiar beeping sound of a garbage truck in reverse. The garbage men had arrived to end my orgy of rotten lust. I was upset, but saw the silver lining – I had gotten a gut full of rotten fish and could now enjoy the unforgiving heat and humidity on this summer’s day. My next stop was the park – a mere 8 mile walk down the highway. I began my journey.
An hour and a half later, I had nearly arrived at my destination – The South Atlanta Industrial park. Here I could relax and enjoy the smell of gaseous waste, the byproducts of some chemical process completely foreign to me. I gazed at the pipes and vats and took a whiff of what smelled like a mixture of diarrhea and burnt hair. I wondered if what I smelled was the greenish yellow mist slowly seeping from the short, wide container to my left, or the thick black smoke billowing from the tall skinny tower to my right. I didn’t mind – all I knew was that I was having an amazing lazy Sunday afternoon.
After inhaling the toxic air for hours on end, I decided it was time to leave, so I began on my route home. As I approached perhaps the most physically demanding section of the walk, (a 50 foot concrete wall that required scaling in order to exit the industrial park) I noticed a short sentence spray painted in red about 20 feet up, so climbed closer to get a better look. I can still remember the exact moment I read the words and just typing them out brings chills to my spine. It read”
Wake up America – Stop being a corporate slave and having a bull s*** 9 to 5 job – corporate pigs. WAKE the f*** UP! 8======D”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. At once, I realized my place in society; a cog. I finally realized all of the ills of modern, western capitalist greed and my complacency in it all was suddenly at the forefront of my conscience. I felt like a rat turd floating in a sea of diarrhea. I was moved and inspired. This was perhaps one of the greatest artistic works of our generation. Its creator was both a singular poet and the embodiment of their poetry, portraying themselves as a beacon of light perched atop the concrete wall amidst a vast see of industrial wasteland.
If you’ve read this far dear reader, and are hoping for a name to attribute this beautiful poetry and social commentary to, I am afraid I cannot provide that information. The artist remains anonymous. However, I think it is safe to say that we are going to see a lot more of this clever trickster’s work around town in the future, so be on the lookout. If anyone sees words spray painted in red paint around town please let us know by emailing SkeletonRealm@gmail.com
1. Matthew Pierce Bridgers
This walking piece of garbage has mistakenly been picked up and taken to the dump by garbage men on garbage day while checking his mail-box fifteen times. Matt is the product of a cruel and on going experiment in which subjects are exposed to deadly chemicals from infancy. Call him at 912-659-2480
2. The Vomit Boys
We've all seen the vomit boys roaming around town like rouge spray-warriors covering the city in their viscous bile! Be sure to catch them on Friday: their sea-food night; on this night the scent of their spray resembles a heaping pile of dirty, rotten clams!
3. Dug Simpon
Catch this hottie hiding by the doors aisle in Home Depot. After an 8-year career in corporate espionage, DS has recently become the sole heir of the McDonalds fast food company.
4. Ejaculating Penis
Everyone's favorite hipster hunk can usually be found at Gabriel's Tavern quenching his seemingly unending thirst with a pitcher of Bill's Brew while munching on a fist full of pellets.
5. Sparkle Boy
When Sparkle Boy first arrived in town we knew something was wrong. SB is wanted in nine different states for a slew of felonies and can often be spotted running desperately southbound on a dirt path parallel to I-85. Rumor has it our Sparkle Boy has recently acquired a horse and is making some great headway towards the border! If you see a bony 8-foot tall breathless freak bareback mounted on a horse galloping down the highway, please call 9-11.
We all know him - he's one of the most prominent masters in the Realm, and a force to be reckoned with on the battle field! He's Lord Primm, one of our most worshipful and merciful lords! Praise be to Primm and praise be to the Skeletonton gods for allowing him to grace us with his presence for 60 years!
Lord Primm was born in Golbinsbog on this day in 1955 to peasant parents. For the first 3 years of his life, Goblins bog was suffering from one of the worst diarrhea outbreaks in history, thanks to a particularly rotten shipment of turnips. Nonetheless, Lord Primm grew into a strong boy and quickly asserted his physical dominance over the other children of the village. Before he was 30, Primm had mounted an army and enslaved almost every member of Goblinsbog to work in his large pumping factory. The hours were hard for his peasants, and they certainly did not enjoy operating Primm's massive pumps.
Now, the name Lord Primm is synonymous with power and prestige. Happy birthday Lord Primm!
Celebrations will be held this evening behind the dumpster next to Checkers at 420 Moreland Ave SE, Atlanta, GA 30316
Pictured: Lord Primm (Right) and his cousin Gabriel.