Here’s a little advice for contestants who go on Deal or No Deal: do not drop acid before the show.

A celebrity edition featuring yours truly will never air, given that I refused to pick a numbered briefcase, and kept droning “N-n-n-n-n-o-o D-d-d-deal-l-l” before a deal was even offered. In fact, “N-n-n-n-n-o-o D-d-d-deal-l-l” was all I could muster under my compromised faculties. Apparently, LSD gives me a stutter. When Howie braced my arm and whispered, “What the hell are you doing?” I replied, “m-m-m-m-e-n-t-t-t-a-l c-c-c-a-s-e n-n-n-n-u-m-b-b-b-e-r n-n-n-i-n-e.” He nearly blew a vessel in his forehead.

You know, I’m starting to get really worn down by all this narrow-minded one-dimensional crap. People just don’t understand the concept of simulacra, in which a represented semblance on an icon is tattooed on the icon—or as Steve Jobs is trying to brand w/ me: iCon.

Whatever Mr. Steve (cough) blowjobs, I’m having none of your mass marketing.

The point is people, when I’m talking to you, I want you to look into my eye (my right one, as my left contact blocks out any vision). Ignore the tattoo, it’s just there to catch your attention. That may seem like a paradox, but I’m a complicated artist.

I’m thinking of getting a tattoo of my ass on my ass, either that or making a video out of my colonoscopy. As long as it’s ass related, I’ll be a happy man.

That may sound odd coming from me, so let me say it again this way: sit down for Satan’s sake. Or better yet, sit down you a-holes.

I passed Easy Street Records during my trip to Seattle and noticed two conspicuously empty benches underneath my mural ad. A little curious and dismayed, I had some coffee across the street—staying there for 3 hours; but no, not one single person sat on the benches. Given the populated intersection, and the fact that many people were standing around (looking like they would have leisurely sat were it not for my asymetrical gaze), I could not help but feel inextricably tied to their narrow-minded qualms.

So I stayed in a motel across the street for two weeks. Not one single soul ever sat on the benches. A couple of pigeons went near (Day 3), but quickly scurried away with a look of panic in their eyes that I’ve never seen in a bird before. One bird actually cooed ‘inhuman’.

My band members all have pseudonyms derived from the first name (or alias) of notable female figures combined with the surnames of serial killers (Gidget Gein, Twiggy Ramirez, Sara Lee Lucus, etc.).

Some people call it a ‘shtick’, but it really fucks up the auditors when they're assessing gross disparities in the band’s royalties, which was the whole point.

Madonna Wayne Gacy, my former keyboardist (the one with the pube-like facial hair), is suing me for supposed financial misdoings (duh). So I used a large sum of his royalties to buy the entire skeleton of a 4-year-old Chinese girl, big deal; I’m doing a cover of Bowie’s ‘China Girl’ and needed some inspiration.

 

Marshall Mathers and I have the same initials (some people don’t know that ‘Eminem’ phonetically pronounces ‘M and M’). We go way back. We are both white guys into black things. We both use anger as an aesthetic. We are both self-appointed cultural critics. Eminem has pierced ears, I have 15 metal rods in my penis. We are pretty much ying and yang (though my ‘yang’ is a little infected).