PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 11: Writer's Block
December 2001

Okay, here's the situation...

As you may have noticed, updates have been a little hard to come by recently. And I have two words to explain it... Writer's Block.

Don't worry, it happens to the best of them. Sometimes it just takes a little longer than you'd like to get the right point across. Take Tool, for instance. It took them five years to follow up "Aenima", but when "Lateralus" finally came into existence, you and I both know how sweet an experience that was. So, just bear with me here... I'm just in a bit of a creative slump. Or maybe I just don't have anything to bitch about at the moment. I mean, sure, Fred Durst is still a whiny bitch, and okay, I'd still love to stomp on Noel Gallagher's head until it leaves a pretty red stain on the carpet that serves as a constant reminder of what happens when pretentious British assholes go too far... but other than that, there isn't too much I'm dissastisified with. Work isn't so bad. Granted, sometimes I want to grab my fucking boss by his ears, and render him a bloody mess with a repetitious and rhythmic knee-to-face staccado. And okay, every time I'm forced to play Backstreet Boys or N-Sync or Britney Spears, a little piece of my soul breaks off and lodges itself in my colon, so that inevitably one day, just as the latest "thing" is cranking from the speakers, an uncontrollable rumble will originate in my sphincter, resulting in furious blast that shatters windows and wakes my neighbours in Guatamala, not only by the sheer unmeasurable decibel level of the explosion, but with the stench of bubble gum that forms a deadly pink cloud that covers the earth, like the audio anthrax that it is (and not in the cool-ass "Bring The Noise" kind either, sunshine). You know what? I'll even concede this, my friends. I'm amazed that after all the red tape and white noise... the constant retooling while consistently stopping just short of giving me some actual POWER in my job... all the fucking bullshit I've put up with in recent months... I haven't crawled to the top of the nearest bell tower with a blow gun, taking out random pedestrians with my venom-soaked spitballs.

But hey... just because I've been feeling nagging urges to tie my fucking boss to a gynecologist's chair, smear peanut butter on his nutsack with a ten foot pole, and sic a team of hungry rottweilers into the room, doesn't necessarily mean there's A-material to be extracted from the experience. As such, my apologies for a very unentertaining Pissing Vinegar. My special Christmas edition should be much better.