Hold On A Sec

Wait … did you just say ‘war’?  War?  What war?  Where?  No, man, that happened already, like—wow, must have been almost seventeen years ago now.  Hm?  No, jeez, yeah, I know it’s confusing in that region, what a fucking hellhole, but trust me, we got out of Iraq like almost two decades ago, so no need to—you really believe what you’re saying, don’t you.  Buddy, there was no reason to go to—okay, so you agree there was no cause to start a war with them, so how would—Huh?  They knew that and they declared war anyway? No, who would be that retarded?  Hah!  Okay, now I know for sure you’re talking about 1991—Bush hasn’t been president for a long time, you know.  Yeah, yeah, Saddam and all that.  I think you’re just a little mixed up, because lately Saddam hasn’t been doing anything, really.  You know that for a fact, do you?  How’s that? Dead?  Hm, first I’ve heard of it.  Ah, those dictators, always dying comfortably on their beds of old age. Hanged?  What the fuck, seriously?  When did that happen?  It’s on fucking YouTube?  That’s not funny, dude.  The troops are in Afghanistan, where the Taliban were based—hello, we’re trying to get the scumbags responsible for 9/11.  America thinks what?  Nobody is that stupid.  Well, maybe some people, but—god, put the pie charts away, I can’t look at those numbers.  You are goddamned sick.  This isn’t possible.  It would have been on the TV news.  President Clinton would have been impeached.  What?  He was??  For WHAT??  And he’s not even president anymore??!  What do you mean we live in a mostly benevolent but deeply fascist state???!! CAN A GOOSE GO OUT DRINKING FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS WITHOUT THE WORLD CRUMBLING DOWN AROUND HIM I MEAN FUCK

—Nero

The Labyrinth 2.0

What brutal sprawls of twisted deathmaze encroach on our precious isle of Manhattan!  What beast-infested nooks and crannies where taxis dare not roam!  What great food-trapping beards that outgristle and outgrease any post-coital Minotaur!  What cheap and chokesome wat’ry beers!  What uninspired zombie throngs that barely conceal contempt for opening bands that aren’t half bad!  What bony, unwashed sternums unearthed by plunging V-neck collars!     

Sign marking the condemned’s entrance to their existential Inferno

To think, that even I, Caligula, could find myself in that phantom world of non-dreams and overshopping at Trader Joe’s, merely by falling asleep on the B train en route to Urban Outfitters, is too hellish an ordeal to dwell on. The human disease, thy name is Brooklyn. I shall have to put the episode behind me if I stand any chance of recovery. But the memories of clove-breath and misappropriations of irony, the gnarled syntax and pizza parlor stabbings, will haunt me for a lifetime, nay, into the afterlife.  

To say nothing of the short stories that hold together about as well as a fistful of diarrhea.  

—Caligula

I’m Gone For Just Two Millenia…

And look what happens to my precious Rome!

Oh sure, to you it’s some neat touristy diversion, minor ruins, a chill place to sit around and get high with the Australians from your hostel.  But that was my temple!  In 40 A.D., man, the blood ran down those steps and people recognized me for the various gods I undoubtedly am.  And today when I peeked in the archway the Danish teenagers fucking inside wouldn’t even let me take a Polaroid.  When did I lose my touch?  When did my palaces of torture crumble into desrepair?

The rest of the city was likewise depressing; I was run over by two taxis and a ten-year-old on a vespa.  Yet I did catch a glimpse of an opulently dressed man on a balcony—from what the locals say, he seems to have taken up my mantle of narcissism and  eccentricity.  Sealed away in an untouchable private country (imagine the hidden/forbidden pleasures!) and essentially equating himself with the Creator, his word is law; he commands unconditional worship.  It’s good to know Rome is still under the sway of a man so made in my mold:

—Caligula

Whatever It Is You’re Looking For

Folks, tomorrow is the 12-week/3-month anniversary of Caligula vs. Nero.  And in that short time, we’ve amassed a lot of fans for a furious goose and a batshit crazy retired politician, as the hit counter demonstrates.  It saddens us, though, that we don’t know our readers very well, being that we so rarely receive comments on our posts, presumably because everything we write dumbfounds you.

But never fear: thanks to wordpress’ data collection system, we can make all kinds of assumptions about you based on the search engine input you used to find our site.  And so, without further ado, here are the search terms that have brought people into the Caligula vs. Nero family, spelling and sequence preserved. We sure hope you found what you were looking for.  Enjoy, and tremble in fear.

“vlad the impaler”

“sex robots”

“absinthe dreams”

“scalia”

“caligula gay”

“goose computer”

“humilliation sex”

“sex humiliation”

“zer vs nero”

“‘pro-tec’ shorts”

“dickhole”

“being big bird the muppet”

“bradley trout”

“allergy”

“vlad, the impaler”

Vlad “Dracul” the Impaler Transylvanian Castle Set™ sold separately

“pet goose”

“absenth spoon”

“the imagination is a dying animal”

“sex while clothed”

“absinthe robette”

“ben and jerrys pint”

“pegging”

“pegging preversion”

“canada goose attack”

“sadism”

“sadistic sex”

“form fitting shorts”

“children fucked”

“christopher mullan , goose beating”

“vlad dracul”

“history of absinthe”

and, of course,

“dumpster fuck”

—Nero

Heatwave

So…sluggish…heat killing off brain cells ten at a time…losing subtleties of thought…same high temperature today in New York City as Middle East…the terrorists win…saw leaf wilt and fall off tree…vanished in puff of smoke when it touched asphalt…can’t even make it to bank…to cash economic stimulus check…was gonna get an XBox…terrorists win…feathers sticking to keyboard…becoming more racist for some reason…sudden horrible empathy with the south…unfounded suspicion of Barack Obama…

New York City (courtesy of NASA)

…stream of consciousness dwindling to a trickle…capacity for figurative thought shutting down like an aardvark stalks sex predators…I mean, like coma fruit takes a ride on…nevermind…terrorists win…choking on humidity…oxygen depleted…sudden urge to buy lotto tickets…just a lil bit of luck…need to bash my head on something to pass out…don’t have the strength to injure myself…God please blow up the sun…foot melting onto dirt…total swamp-ass right now…thirsty….hot…is someone gonna crack this fire hydrant or what…yes!…fuck they’re just using it to put out an apartment fire…go Mets…but terrorists win.

—Nero

 

The Reverse Dear-John

Dear “Kristen”—

No, the title of this post is not a reference to one of the many positions you and ex-governor Eliot Spitzer lovelessly copulated in.  Or at least I don’t mean it that way.  

I’m breaking this thing off.

That’s right.  You squandered your gift.  You had all the makings of the Top 40 pop star I’d been waiting for my whole adult life, a diva that could make me molt with nothing but her sultry voice, an oversexed club beat and ugly—gloriously ugly—synthesizer riffs.  And you threw it all away.  Instead of being a record industry whore, you were a regular whore.  Instead of reminding us “What We Want” and to “Move Ya Body,” you chose to be a jizz jar at the VIP club.  Well, you forgot who the real VIPs are: the fans.

How can I think of peace when those fingers have been in a governor’s asshole?

Oh, I defended you when the news first broke and threatened to overshadow your singing career.  I said when the dust settled, you’d be touring with Kanye and the Dixie Chicks and get around to responding to my MySpace messages.  But the weeks went by, and I got knocked off your top friends list.  I couldn’t afford tickets to “Glow In The Dark,” but I know you sure as hell didn’t make a guest appearance.  And I won’t let you hurt me any longer.

You could have been a goddess, girl.  But the world will always remember the day Eliot Spitzer fell as the the day the music died.

—Nero 

 

Ruffled Feathers

Terrible news for Hillary Rodham Clinton today. That’s right: Big Bird has now tainted her candidacy in a way even Reverend Wright must be impressed with.

Just when we were moving past the offensive phrase “flipping the bird”

Tabloid readers will be familiar with this shot of the far-left fringe educationalist saluting the paparazzi after running over a boy crossing the street on foot because he donated his bike-fund money to HRC’s campaign. And my fans will remember me blowing the lid off of the fraternization between this piss-colored monster and Hillary herself back at the height of her cookie-baking powers.

It just keeps getting worse. I mean, Bert and Ernie’s gay marriage in Los Angeles this past week was a beautiful thing, and a long time coming. But no sooner had that holy ceremony taken place than a certain disgrace to the whole avian community was throwing a lavish, key-swapping swingers party on the beach to directly undermine the idea of homosexual monogamy itself.

And if the classical Greek-style nude statues that urinated Stoli vodka are any indication, this party was paid for by money embezzled from PBS. It’s safe to say that if Hillary doesn’t address the Big Bird connection soon, she’ll never clinch this nomination.

—Nero

Seeing Red

I have a Pinkerton tattoo under my left wing. I lost my virginity to “El Scorcho.” I wish I looked like Buddy Holly, even tried wearing non-prescription glasses. Rivers Cuomo is a friend of mine.

None of this saves their comeback—the so-called “Red Album”—from being a little disappointing. But how fuckin’ DARE Pitchforkmedia give it a 4.7?!! SHOW A LITTLE RESPECT YOU OVERLITERATE LES SAVY FAV-FELLATING COPYWRITER SCUM

Don’t kick someone when they’re already mustachioed

4.7. Seriously. 4.7: less than exactly mediocre. 4.7: the equivalent of Pedro the Lion’s “Achilles Heel”. 4.7: One-tenth of a point below Two Ton Boa’s self-titled EP. I have no idea who these bands are, but they’re no company for the chugging 90s power-pop that soundtracked flight academy for me. They should have broken the 9.0 ceiling on nostalgia alone. But I guess some critics are hankering for the end of culture and civilization. You hipsters go have fun handjobbing each other to Vampire Weekend—I’ll be rocking out “In The Garage.”

—Nero

What Is The Sound Of 290,000 Veterans Rolling Over In Their Graves?

To The Caretakers and Groundskeepers of Arlington National Cemetery:

Do you always assume that someone standing around the JFK Eternal Flame with a fire extinguisher is up to something?  Sheesh.  Just trying to lighten the mood—it’s Memorial Day Weekend, not Fat Tourists Pretend To Be Moved Con 2K8!  

You know, I’m glad I was banned from the premises for a year.  Make it life!  I would never have made the trip down to Virginia in the first place if I’d known you’d make American military history so boring—I expected friezes of huge gory battle scenes, maybe a few naked statues representing Fortune and Victory, for eye candy’s sake. Instead I get unimaginative tripe like the “Tomb of the Unknown Soldier” and “Visitor Center.”

All I can say is, any self-respecting risen-from-the-dead soldier would take the curators of this blandarama and render them FUBAR for making their final resting place such a bore.  Sleep, you damned curs, and dream that zombie Robert E. Lee is coming to settle your grits.

 

Mortified,

Caligula

P.S. I want my coffin exhuming equipment back.

 

 

Memorialize This

Memorial Day Weekend is more than just an opportunity for brain-dead and liquored up humans to cover the country with dirty blankets and discarded sporks as they chow down on bloody bovine and the less fortunate members of the avian community: it’s the beginning of three and a half months of said grotesque behavior.

I don’t get it, America—summer seems like prime time to sit in your homes, blast the A/C and look up celebrity sex videos on your new MacBooks.  Instead you’re inviting mosquitos into your ears and sweat into your asscracks.  If were up to me, of course, humans would never be allowed outside in the first place.  But I would think you’d get the hint that nature doesn’t want you running around playing frisbee golf in it. Or did you think knocking a squirrel out of a tree with a hard plastic disc was a fitting tribute to our fallen heroes?       

Celebrate those who gave their lives by          sacrificing the dignity of yours

 

 

 

—Nero