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Monday, December 22, 2014

Celebrity Death Report: Joe Cocker

Sadness sweeps the nation today as singer/songwriter Joe Cocker has passed away. Most known for being a twitcher that didn't drink a beer with Jim Belushi, Cocker wrote such hits as "You can Leave Your Hat On" which is about gay hate rape, and "With A Little Help From My Friends" which is a cover of a Blue Oyster Cult tune. Sleep easy. Sleep with the feeshes. Fish on a sting. -jr

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

JCM goes to The Joe for WWE Monday Night Raw

Get out of work early. Go home and change into my badass sausage casing of an X-Pac t-shirt. Head over to Wang's. Baby is rolling on the floor. Watch Odd Hours in Tim & Eric's Bedtime Stories.

Talked about the vapidity of the Gold House interview youtubes. Headed to The Joe. Got there in 15 minutes. Took 20 minutes to park. Bitch parking attendant told me not to worry about the lines. I didn't. Gotta pee real bad. I don't think I'm going to make it. Get inside fast. Metal detectors didn't catch the switchblade in my boot. Already a line for the piss troff fml. Vacate bladder. Get in a dead-stopped line for beer and hot dogs. Surrounded by chuds. Bounce into 3 different lines. End up next to Violent J from ICP sans clown getup. Give him an autograph and get my giant Molson and hot dog. Hot dog gone. Get in seats. See the opening, Y2J is unbearable. Security is checking tickets and seats. Stressing out. I get the desire to flee. Go get Beer #2, hot dog #2, and a pretzel. Miss the tag match between the team of Ziggler and Rowan against Big Show and Harper. Whatever. Come back. I've been here for an hour and haven't seen shit yet. Bitch match. Lasts 30 seconds. I have to piss again. Hit up the piss troff. A submental walks up next to me. I check out his dick to see if it's bigger than mine. He goes to piss and instead just starts tugging it in fibonacci sequence. Get the fuck out of there. Get third beer and third hot dog.

This is when everything changed. Get back to seats. Some fat fuck crab-crawls up the stairs next to me. As I see this, the deafening fireworks go off and my stomach lurches. I empty everything inside of me on the family in the rows beneath. I stand up as tall as possible and spread my arms to their full wingspan. I lean forward and just as I lose balance, I do a toe lift and begin to sail. I roll and tumble and flatline and everything is blur of toothless tattoos. Next thing I know I go through the barrier and security rushes me. They drag me back behind the titantron and beat the living shit out of me. I wake up in the dumpster covered in my own blood, spit, and piss. I call Metro and Wang. They find me and pick me up and dust me off. We drive over to Henry VIII's where the after party is. X-Pac is there guest-djing and he pats me on the back saying that the bump I took was the best he had ever seen. Then, he gave me a bump of cocaine. After 2 buckets of MGD's, I was spinning and decided to buy blowjobs for everyone. Today, I am all loosey goosey. And that is why I love the WWE.


Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Blowout- It has Begun

Metro here.  I know JCM is in hibernation period and it is nowhere close to Wrestlemania season yet, however The Metro Times has released the very first promo pic for next year's Blowout and it is predictably uninspired with no theme and a bust.

  From what I hear, Blowout this year will be run by pretty much the same fucks that ran it last year (with CJohnst running Ferndale, or at least the Loving Touch....while he still can).  And we all remember how well last year went.  Tangent....does anybody still read Metro Times?  Does anybody still read this blog?

Anywho, 2014's Blowout was outed as a failure, and I'd like to take some credit for that as my expose into the sham that it was....was one of the more well-received posts on this site.  Despite the organizer's efforts to suck the life out of a once memorable event I actually had a decent time tearing it apart.  Who could forget the JCM Kickstarter which allowed me to attend for free (and some extra beer money to support the venues).  And then the subsequent reviews of the abandoned venues and embarrassed bands.  And that one place that told Metro Times they didn't want to host Blowout because it was actually losing them money.  Memories.  I have included the links below in case you wanted to easily stroll down memory lane with me.  And I can't wait to apply for Blowout 18.  Hopefully they will see the error in their ways and not shut us out this year.  Preferably a set with The Handgrenades, Destroy This Place, Pussyshow, and PASSalaqlickua.

Pre-Show Revue

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

And we'll have fun fun fun till yo daddy takes your festival awayyyy

Bryan Metro

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Hockey Town

The "Original Three" of the JCM, Metro, -jr, and Wang, will be covering the Red Wings game live tonight.  Check back here to get the latest news from the rink.

We lost 4-3  :(

From the Iceman Commeth,
Bryan Metro

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Its Pat

Saw this guy on the internet today defending Lena Dunham from my Cheeseburger joke on Facebook.

Is it Blowout season yet?

From the Iceman Commeth,
Bryan Metro

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Guest

It was a hell of a movie with a soundtrack to boot. So take some somas and spin with us.


Thursday, October 16, 2014

Happy happy Halloween

We have just received our first shipment of Sadie Hip in Detroit Halloween costumes.  If you are interested in being the most uninformed sycophant freeloader in the local music scene then don't waste another minute.  Throw out you spell check and send your credit card information to my e-mail and you will definitely be the PASS of the party!!!  Act now.  Supplies are limited

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

How Do You Like Your Filet Mignon?

     “No, no, no, maybe, fat, yes, yes, pass, black, no, yes, YES, swipe!”

Scott and I are browsing my Tinder account and he is attempting to coach me on who to swipe and who not to swipe.  Whoever I swipe right (a “yes”) automatically gets a message from me consisting of “Hunka Chunka” which is our code for “fuck city baby,” but very few of my catches realize this since this slang is only used by myself, Trent, Amy, Scott, Matt, and Oakley in jest and this slang is only heard at U.S. Clean Zone #146 aka the House by the Beach.

A gunshot shakes us from our medicinal stupor and Oakley yells from the west end sentry point “Got another one!  Poor bastard didn’t see it coming.”  The west, south, and east sentry points were constructed to ensure that none of the infected breached the recently constructed walls around the House by the Beach (the north side is pretty much unbreachable due to the flaming moat that Trent dug on a week long coke binge before cooler heads prevailed and we decided to build the walls instead….. well we didn’t build them, of course, but rather had the grounds crew do it for us.  The grounds crew was then executed due to Clean Zone #146 protocol).

It has been around two months since most of civilization was eliminated due to the Ebola epidemic and everyone at the U.S. Clean Zone #146 House by the Beach is starting to get restless, wants to get their fuck-on, and unfortunately Amy is pretty useless in times of duress.  That is why we have all downloaded the Tinder App in an effort to fuck…. I mean reconnect with the outside world.  Most of our accounts have yielded zero results but we continue to try; to repopulate.  Actually, last week Scott found a suitable match, a real babe, a total hardbody, but after going through U.S. Clean Zone #146 House by the Beach’s extensive screening/cleansing process she was accidentally gunned down by Oakley as she approached the East gate.  Oakley has become trigger-happy and this is something that will have to be addressed sooner or later.

A buzzer sounds on our laptops (we all have one now, one of Matt’s few good ideas) and we all pick them up as this is usually a notification of an incoming message from Trent.  It is a beautiful day out on the west coast and Amy, Scott, Matt, and myself are all laying out by the pool.  Another shot rings out.
   “Got another one,” Oakley shouts.
I click on the audio message from Trent as everyone else does.  After a too-long decoding process the message plays and in an eerie, robotic voice Trent says, “Oakley has become trigger-happy and this is something that will have to be addressed sooner or later.”

Trent is also at the pool.  However, he is laying on an inner tube in the middle of the pool wearing the communal Hazmat suit and can only communicate via the electronic voice system installed by Matt’s dad (who was then executed due to Clean Zone #146 protocol).  This week is Trent’s week to use the communal Hazmat suit and he is attempting to sun himself in it, laying in a circular inflatable inner tube with a Hemingway novel that he is pretending to read in one hand and a Barrett REC7 automatic rifle in the other.

I look down to see that somebody actually responded to one of my Tinder “Hunka Chunka” messages.  Hmmmmmm….. She’s not exactly a “yes” but not exactly a “no”.  She’s a “maybe”, but as the days go on more and more “no’s” become maybes and more and more “maybe’s” become “yes’s”.  This "maybe" is named Ingrid and I quickly message her, inviting her to a pre-date medical screening which is standard procedure here at U.S. Clean Zone #146 House by the Beach which would then be followed by dinner and then fuck town.  She agrees and I give her the coordinates to our location (addresses are no longer used) to meet tonight at 8.

A military helicopter approaches from the east and we all receive an audio message from Hazmat Trent saying, ominously, “Take no chances”.  Oakley lets out a giant “Whoop” and promptly shoots down the helicopter with a M26 rocket launcher.  This happens at least once a week.

As 8 o’clock approaches I make my way through the secure tunnel from the House by the Beach to the recently constructed quarantine annex where I will meet my date, Ingrid, who by this time is going through the medical screening portion of the date by Amy.  After that, we will have our interview, then hopefully dinner (Matt makes a lovely filet mignon), then hopefully….

I am wearing the communal Hazmat suit (obviously) and Trent has relocated to the Control Room (he doesn’t really come out that much anymore if it’s not his Hazmat week).  Ingrid enters the sanitized white room and she looks just like her profile: 5’8”, 140 lbs, blonde hair, blue eyes, a total Teutonic babe.  After making an obligatory master race joke we get into the interview process of the date.
Me-“Have you been in contact with anyone with the demon seed Ebola?  Also, very nice to meet you.”
Me-“Have many people have you slept with in the past year, Year Zero?”
Me-“Have they been in contact with anyone with the demon seed Ebola?”
Her-“I don’t know.  I’m sorry.”
An annoyed glance from me, then we continue.
Me-“Are you willing to relocate to the U.S. Clean Zone #146 if necessary?”
Her-“I suppose so.  You’re kinda cute.”
Me-“How do you like your filet mignon cooked?”
Her-“Medium rare.”
At this moment the overhead speaker system springs to life and in a blur Amy’s voice booms in.
   “Metro, she tested positive.  She’s ruined.  Commence proper measures.”
I slam the button which triggers the 2000 volts of electricity wired to her chair but she is up before the chair goes live and runs past me into the tunnel.  I (slowly) try to keep up with her but she gets out onto the grounds (thankfully she didn’t choose the tunnel into the House by the Beach.  I can only deal with so many fires).  I follow her into the front yard and see that Amy has taken the South tower, and Scott the East, and Matt the West tower, and I assume that Oakley is suiting up for ground warfare.  Trent’s voice booms over the intercoms (installed by the good folks at Entech Sales who were then executed), “She is heading north on the grounds; north on the grounds.”  He sounds orgasmic.

I rid myself of the Hazmat suit as Trent’s voice blares “Stay in the suit Metro.  Stay in the suit!” and I give chase.  I eventually catch her as she is looking for a way to cross the flaming moat.
   “Ingrid,” I shout, “We can help you!”
   “With proper treatment I can be saved, Bryan.  And then we can be together.”
   “That is what I want, Ingrid.  A new beginning.”
   “Can you help me?”
   “Yes, I think we can.”
I use the 12 foot branch that I had picked up on the way to nudge her into the flaming moat and turn around and walk back to Clean Zone #146 House by the Beach.  I don’t even hear her scream.

Two days later (after my comprehensive scrub and medical tests) we are all laying out by the pool again.
   “Yes, no, no, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, yes, maybe,” somebody is saying but I don’t know who.  WHO.  The audio buzzer from Trent’s control chamber goes off (It is Scott’s turn for the communal Hazmat suit this week),

   “I told you a flaming moat was a fucking good idea…”

From the Iceman Commeth,
Bryan Metro

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


It's the eve of the first day of October and I'm waivering on whether or not I'm going to do the daily movie review. Noone cares except our sycophants. I take a look at Facebook for the first time in a long time. The self promotion monsters that are my friends disgust me. Noone cares except our sycophants. What is the point of creating all this music, media, and art?  If fame is the game we're in the wrong city.  If it's an ego boost, doesn't that get old after a certain age or after the 800th performance to a room with maybe 20 people you are directly or Inderectly acquainted with?  All the back patting and ass kissing is just a giant suckfest that makes me shudder whenever witnessed. The only time we made a worthwhile monetary return was when we knew nobody, hated everybody, and mercilessly preached our opinion on this inconsequential purple blog with yellow arial font.  Hip in detroit is just the worst. Anyone that says otherwise is full of shit. The new metro times double wide is pretty close in suckitude.  Everything is shit. Everything is an upvote on reddit, a like on Facebook, a repost on tumblr.  Everyone wants the reacharound but they don't want to take it up the ass to get there.  I hate all of you. Your music is subpar if not unlistenable. You can hardly frame a complete sentence.  I'm not saying we're any better. The human centipede of ass kissing is pathetic. But hey, noone cares except our sycophants.


Saturday, September 13, 2014

Size 12 Birthday

Happy Birthday Sadie!


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