Speaking of Rob Zombie, my kick-ass theme song is his “Pussy Liquor.” I could not love that song more. I love to put that CD in the car stereo, roll down all my windows, and turn it up as loud as I can take it.
I love it because it has a walking baseline and a big brass section, and this chorus that when you sing it makes you feel not like a regular office worker in the yakkity-smackity field, not like someone no one at Pith In the Wind finds funny*, not like a girl who can’t escape the Freudian psycho-drama at home, but like a dangerous, scary thing that might kill a man.
One, two, three, who should I kill?
Every motherfucker running up the hill.
One, two, three, what should I do?
Get fucked up and fuck up you.
It’s true, I would be driving a Camaro around if I could. Shit, I kind of am. Ask anyone at Daimler Chrysler and you get enough drinks in them and they’ll tell you that the lines of the Dodge Stratus are supposed to remind 30 something professionals of the Camaros they saw in the high school parking lots.
What can I tell you? It worked on me.
Anyway, I saw Rob Zombie’s house on Cribs once and was totally disappointed. It’s dedicated to scary things, but it itself is not very scary. When I get some money, I’m going to live in a crazy-ass scary house. I’m going to sit on the front porch in my bathrobe singing “Pussy Liquor” softly under my breath and terrify the neighbor kids.
*Worse than not finding me funny–or my preference, insightfully funny–they seem to think I’m serious! That I think Egalia and Brittney are crazy and need medically induced orgasms to cure them! What the fuck?