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The latest thorn in our side: Zach De La Rocha.

Or more accurately, the misguided pricks who follow him - wannabe Socialist idealist dickheads make me want to puke. [Author's note: since time of writing both Tony Blair and Fidel Castro have stepped down. However, some things just don't change...]

February saw a huge month for music, perhaps the most notable event being the announcement that the mighty Rage Against The Machine are to reform for at least one show. This, twinned with the fact that Chris Cornell has left Audioslave in order to pursue his solo career, has left music fans worldwide with a boner that could knock a SCUD missile out of the sky. Thus, it would seem, the pieces are in place for The Rage to reform on a full-time basis, bringing their own unique blend of angry politika to the world of Metal.

Don't get me wrong - I'm a fan of Rage - I think their brand of political commentary is the booze-induced enema the music industry needs. I really like their stuff, and given a few beers will mosh to their song 'Killing In The Name Of' so hard that the muscles in my neck snap like Margot Kidder. Put 'Wake Up' on nice and loud and I practically have a fucking aneurysm.

Despite all this, however, I honestly believe that Zach De La Rocha should be shot in the face for the sake of humanity. Right now.

This re-union is a big mistake - the kind of hideous error that has me in cold sweats, the kind of idea that keeps me up at night worrying, that has me biting my nails until there's nothing left but bloody stumps to chew on. Any more talk of a full-time return from the band and I'll be pissing my bed-sheets in fear. Please - for the love of God - someone please leave an armed grenade in Zach's underpants, before it's too late.

It's not because Zach often comes across as a mouthy prick (although that's true, bless his little cotton socks.) It's not because he's sporting dreadlocks - possibly the most heinous fashion abortion since the mullet. It's not that he's crazier than a bunch of overly-hormonal teenage girls at a shoe sale. It's not that he stormed out of his recording sessions with the legendary DJ Shadow like a Jack Osbourne clone with a firecracker up his ass. I have nothing against Zach personally, it's his minions, his followers that I can't stand. Someone should drop a nuke on California (specifically the Coachella festival) before this shit can get out of hand, and engulphs the whole of popular culture like a plague of puss-spewing, sexually transmitted warts.

The problem isn't even the vast majority of Rage fans - it's the few annoying pockets of dickheads that let the side down. These are the kind of inane lunatics keen to get their message across, to shout for their cause from the highest rooftops, to change the world.

These are the baffled, agonizing dickheads who hear Rage's firebrand lyrics, skip all the difficult bits about reform and political agenda, and go straight for the clichéd, nonsensical, tired bullshit that we've all heard before.

These are the shit-for-brains losers who, inspired by the passion of De La Rocha's revolutionist raps, decide they want a revolution of their own - problem is, they're too ignorant, narrow-minded or generally retarded to know what the fuck they're on about.

Most of these losers probably couldn't even spell 'Revolution.'

These are the cum-stains on the face of civilization who either think they have it so much worse than everyone else, or think they're 10,000 times smarter than everyone else - this can be particularly annoying when said misfit hasn't even read any books to support their washed up, watered down claims. Why bother actually forming a coherent, interesting opinion when you can just throw Rage Against The Machine lyrics at people? Seriously - if I hear the words 'fight the power' one more time I'm going to fucking headbutt somebody.

Yes, of course we should embrace your ideas. I'm sure we'll all agree that the world should be run on your half-assed ideas about 'freedom' - what would those suits in Congress know anyhow? They're only highly successful businessmen / public figures with Harvard educations - that's nothing compared to your ground-breaking gems like 'It takes a nation of millions to hold us back.' Fuck off you patronizing ponce - that's not even your idea - it's the title of a Public Enemy album. You nob.

Specifically, I'm talking about:

Pseudo-Socialist wannabes on a mission against 'The Man.' Yes, those people.

All of whom will likely rise again unto the streets like a plague of locusts - except these locusts spout meaningless slogans and seemingly exist solely to piss the world off.

So kick back, relax, grab yourself a beer and enjoy my little trip into the wettest, bubbliest farts in the sodden ass-crack of our society. While you're at it, I recommend you click here to hear 'March Of Death' by Zach and DJ Shadow - you know, to get the mood going.

Viva La Revolución!

This morning I was walking through Manchester city centre on my way to work. My MP3 player was on at a nice, ridiculously loud volume so I could drown out the whelping squeals of the cloudy-eyed leaflet-distributers, Big Issue magazine salesmen and other assorted fuckwits that constantly charge me down on a driven mission to fuck up my day. My body language made it clear I didn't want to be disturbed, as I ploughed through the sea of human traffic, knocking over any unfortunate men, women, children and zimmerframe-brandishing old ladies that happened to get in my way. When I'm going to work, don't you dare disturb me - someone could spontaneously combust right infront of me and I wouldn't even take my hands out my pockets to waft away the smoke. I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed with an arrow pointing to my MP3 player and the words 'IF THIS IS SWITCHED ON, THAT MEANS YOU SWITCH OFF.' Or maybe a more subtle message like 'IF I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU, THAT MEANS SHUT THE FUCK UP.' I'm on a mission. Don't get in my way.

So naturally every maggot and their grandfather decide to vie for my attention, grabbing at my sleeves, waving leaflets in my face - through this I feign a smile and try to think of other things than stabbing them through the jugular with my pen and bathing in a fountain of their blood. This morning I'd been accosted by maybe a dozen of these mindless drones, and I was fast approaching breaking point. So I decided to park my arse on the nearest bench to regain what little composure I had left.

And then came the icing on the cake - the queen bitch of all annoyances - just when I thought things couldn't get any more irritating, the sledgehammer blow of pointless aggravation jumped ass-first into my path. An angry, Emo teenage female Socialist stands infront of me, looking down at me, and grabs the earplugs from my head, yanking them towards her. She didn't seem to mind that this hurt like hell. In hindsight, I should have signaled my intentions with a manly, deep-throated growl of anger. Sadly, all I could manage was the kind of high pitched whelp you normally hear when someone (usually me) decides to play football with a poodle.

"Wanna buy some pot?" she rattled at me. I tried not to laugh at the stereotype. "No. Wanna buy some acne cream?" I responded, basking in the warm glow of my own genius. When it comes to cheesy one-liners, they'll build statues of me one day.

"Prick" she snapped back. "You're just a sheep anyway - just going along with the herd, never awake enough to go against the flow." Priceless. My bullshit alarm was making more noise that a World War II air-raid siren.

"Did Karl Marx teach you that?" I asked, genuinely interested. Want to debate me, shitstain? Bring it on, you saggy-faced, gargoyle-looking, bearded hag. I was to be bitterly disappointed, however. She pulled a face like a bulldog with its balls on fire. She didn't even know who Marx was. Her stupidity made my skin itch, made my eyes water. And yet if I were to strangle her for the good of society, I'd be the bad guy!

"Why you sitting there anyway?" she demanded. "That's where The Man wants you to sit." I was baffled by her ignorance. It was like she was compensating for her lack of boobs with angry, pseudo-revolutionary horse shit. Her plan would have worked too, if only she'd learned to read at some point, and actually dragged her pencil-thin frame to the library.

"Why does The Man care where I sit? What the hell is he going to gain?"
I asked. I chased this with the obvious question; "You're trying to be a Socialist, aren't you?"

"People like you crack me up," she said, "always doing as you're told, always walking the path most walked. You have no imagination - no mind of your own." She followed up that theological gem with some kind of trendy new insult possibly involving spaniels. You gotta admire their imagination, the kids these days. I was bored of the clichés, and decided to end this mockery once and for all.

"A mind of my own, eh? Yeah, it'd be awful if I were to join a subculture mired by millions of similar-looking individuals wearing the same clothes, listening to the same music, doing the same things, saying the same old crap. Yeah, that'd make me an individual, unique like no other, you shit for brains. It'd be terrible if I were to dress up in wardrobe designed to look so rebellious that its popularity has seen it become the established norm. How horrible it would be if I were to join a mindset based on a dead Russian accredited with the enslaving of millions, nay billions, worldwide. Wouldn't it be nasty if I modeled my misguided principles on a political system designed to render it's subjects the same, removing their rights to freedom of speech, choice, and expression - instead attiring all in the same blue worker's uniforms, forcing them to toe the line for one mystic individual at the top of the food chain. You say fight The Man, while spurting forth pseudo-Socialist ideas from a regieme that INVENTED The Man. And you want me to go my own way, by telling me the way to go? Fuck that shit, lady."

After almost passing out through oxygen deprivation, I regained my composure and locked eye contact on the now baffled, pimply specimen before me. She called me some trendy new name then stormed off to rehearse her bullshit elsewhere.

The score? Me: 1, Bullshit-loving Retard: 0.

I admit, the girl mentioned above was a particularly dumb example, and if left unsupervised would probably try to forrage for food by smashing open tins with her head. But it frames my argument perfectly. These people are idiots - idiots who need desperately to be kicked in the stomach and told to shut the fuck up. What the hell are these people doing that's so rebellious anyhow?

I've been watching these people closely, and have seen them fight the power by partaking in the following groundbreaking, earth-shattering acts of rebellion:


Loitering about. Smoking in public.

If that's not enough to shake the powers that be into submission, you may even see them doing such awe-inspiring acts of revolution as:

Dressing like twats. Listening to
non-offensive, swear-free, parentally approved,
Emo pop-rock.
Getting their shit ruined in mosh pits by those who laugh at their confused, adolescent, whiney bullshit.

And, in some cases, assumedly:

Getting fucked
in the arse by Daddy.

There's more...

Am I done with my mindless rant yet? Hell no! Here's some of the other things these people come out with:

"Meat is murder!" And clichés are death, but they don't let that stop them. If all meat-eaters are evil, then surely lions must be evil too, right? They murder hundreds of poor, defenseless animals per year, often live on television. No anesthetic, no stun-treatment for poor ol' Mr Gazelle. No, nothing but a sharp pair of fangs, endless rivers of blood and hours of agony while Leo chomps down on a dinner of guts and flesh. Nice. Surely that's more horrific than me walking down the street with my cheeseburger, right? Apparently not - at least not according to Captain Dumbass here. Except I'm the one being bitched at, for doing something that occurs en masse in nature anyway. Freaks. Leave me alone.

"You can't hug with nuclear arms." I thought this one was long gone; a throwback to the times of hippies when people were too stoned on weed and LSD to know what the hell they were on about. But apparently not - I heard some vertically challenged fuckmook come out with this pearl of wisdom just the other day. We should declare open season on these fools and go on hunting expeditions in our lunch breaks - that'd keep worker's morale high! If you're unlucky enough to hear this crap, then simply respond: "The president of Iran does not want a hug. He'd rather nuke you shitless. My cock on the other hand... well... that's a different story now, isn't it? You can hug that all you want..."

"The revolution is coming." Simply reply: "No it isn't. You tool. Wow. You're such a tool. A big, shiny, dumb, useless tool. Such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You're such a tool. You big, wasteful, pointless God-damned tool. You're a tool. Just remember that. Tool."

That last example is very effective. For maximum impact, just remember: every time you utter the word 'tool', poke them hard in the chest with your finger. Physical punishment is the only language these idiots understand. Failing that, kick them down a flight of stairs - that'll shake some sense into them.


None of this wank riles me as much, however, as all the nonsense spouted by these people about Che Guevara, who these fools have enlisted as some kind of spiritual, iconic hero. Wake up, people! The man washed his hands with the blood of the people! Supporting this guy's legacy, flying his banner, wearing his image - it all makes about as much sense as France declaring Adolf Hitler as its patron saint. Just don't go there.

I could rant endlessly about not only this, but the endless range of Che Guevara merchandise that's flooding the streets these days. I'd just be repeating myself though - I already squeezed that one out last year, in the rather amusing little turd entitled 'Che Guevara: Your New Fashion Accessory.' You should check it out. Nothing says 'jackass' quite like wearing a deceased despot on your sleeve, (short of running a medium-sized satirical website as a hobby...)

What I don't understand, most of all, is what these young screw-ups are actually fighting against. They preach Socialist ideals, but if you took away their right to vote, they'd scream so loud that God Himself would come back down to Earth to complain about all the noise. Who is The Man anyhow? I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm still stumped.

It surely can't be George Bush - face it, he's way too stoopid to hold any kind of fear over people. Out of the 298,444,215 (July 2006 est.) people in America you'd think they'd elect a man who can actually read. But no. Instead it's the only man in presidential history to be out-smarted by Kermit The Frog.

If Communism and Socialism are so great, how about Fidel Castro? Nonsense. The guy's 631 years old, more fragile than a house of cards during an earthquake, and isn't even powerful enough any more to run his own country. Hell, there's worldwide disputes going on as to whether or not the cigar-munching old coot is even still alive. So this obviously isn't the evil, shadowy puppet-master they're referring to.

What about Tony Blair? Get real. A man with a speech impediment and teeth the size of Bulgaria holding the reigns of the entire world? I doubt it. He can't even get his own stooges to agree with his ideas, yet alone achieve a secret world domination. Besides - have you ever seen him on TV giving speeches? He looks like he's been severely molested with a cricket bat. Nah, it'd never work.

Maybe it's Bill Gates? A logical suggestion I suppose. Problem is the sheer unlikeliness of the world's biggest geek taking over supreme control of the world. This guy can't even get laid, for Christ sake, let alone assume power. Besides, this man can't even be trusted with a mid-sized server application - they're not going to be giving him the fucking Missile Keys, are they? A lot of people say it's folks like Bill Gates that secretly control the world. While this is clearly mindless piss wank, I can at least see the path of their understanding. People like Bill endured decades of being stuffed in their old high school locker with their underpants so far up us their ass crack they could taste the cotton. It's natural that anyone in this position would sooner or later begin to scream "YOU'LL SEE! ONE DAY I'LL TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH COMPUTERS! THEN WE'LL SEE WHO'S LAUGHING! YOU'LL RUE THE DAY YOU SCREWED WITH BILL GATES!" Woe and behold, 37 years later his voice broke.

What we're left with is the bitterest of clichés - the mysterious, suit-wearing, cigar-smoking un-named rich white male. The nameless fat cat. The faceless big wig. We're talking about the sinister evil mastermind you sometimes see in movies - the one who's always sat in a high leather chair with his back to you, possibly stroking some kind of endangered species, probably letting loose reems of manic laughter over The Master Plan, The Dastardly Scheme, or quite possibly even The Evil Plot For Global Domination.

Fuck that shit. Where's James Bond when you need him? These morons have been watching way too much television. Besides, that shit was done with the day they cancelled the X-Files. Move on or die.

We need to trim the herd. End of story.

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