Here’s the second installment of Rock N B-Roll, this time we feature the ridiculous ‘Satan-Lite’ video ‘Looks That Kill’, not featuring the Los Angeles hard rock band Motley Crue. This video has it all! Girls in loin clothes, girls in cages, flying pentagrams and fire! The only thing it’s lacking is an actual appearance from Satan himself…now that would have been epic!

A few years ago I came up with the idea of taking bands out of their own videos, and leaving whatever remained intact. Well, I went and did it. This is the first installment of ROCK N B-ROLL! The first offering is from Def Leppard (minus the band), so sit back and enjoy this 49 second version of ‘Rock Of Ages’. It’s better this way, don’t you agree?

24 year-old Anthony Merino is a stud.

I can say that with unabashed admiration and an entirely unwavering sense of my own sexuality.

His MySpace page (now defunct) is testament to that statement. Competitor in Fear Factor, practitioner of the Martial Arts, owner of sports cars and collector of very foxy and well-endowed women.  He enjoys classical music when he is “studing.”

He may appear to be your average jock, but listen to that ladies, this man has style and class. After a long hard day of hitting the books and the weights,  Tony wants nothing more than to enjoy a cold one.

As he describes himself: “I work hard, so I party hard, that’s my motto.”

And party hard he does.

Or should that be “party stiff?”

You see, dear reader, in addition to “weight training, playing football, making mix dance/club mixes, and going out to the hottest clubs in NYC,” Anthony also enjoys bumping uglies with the recently deceased. That’s right ladies, Anthony is a necrophiliac.

The first chink in Tony’s armor is subtle, but there for the trained eye to notice. He lists in his books section Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. Obvious. Gaiman is a goth icon, and we all know that goth leads an interest in all things dead which in turn leads to eventual necrophiliac tendencies when coupled with individuals who contain an unyielding sense of passion, as exhibited by one Anthony’s choices of favorite movies: Too Fast, Too Furious; which is arguably the most romantic slice of homo-erotica ever filmed. He was able to see past the the facade of underground racing circuits and machismo to the heart of the movie; two men and their inability to properly express their white hot desire to engage in some hot, hot man-on-man ass-fucking. Hence the repetitive double entendre with automobile jargon and rooster-chesting. Anthony decided a course of repression was not for him.  He would stop fighting his deepest desires, fling open the floodgates and let love loose.

He says that “I never seem to have enough time to do all the things that I would like to do.” So modest, this man of immeasurable love. And although he makes this claim, events would lend evidence that he was genius enough to combine his love of histo-technology, his field of employment, with his undying love of loving the dead.

On Halloween evening of 2007, Anthony was caught red handed with his purple-veined member inside the body of a 92 year-old blue-haired stiff.

You call him dead granny fucker.

I call him true romantic.

How many of you are passionate and spirited enough to look beyond the confines of mortality for true love? Your feeble flesh may not be able to court the dead and romance rigor mortis, but that is your cross to bear, not Tony’s. He is enlightened. He can love a woman in all stages of life, even in the absence of. His fingertips work like magic on the zippers of body bags. His tongue can thaw cold and stiffened muscle.His white hot cock will put a little rouge into even the most frozen of cheeks.

Both sets, baby.

How many nights found our boy Tony slick with sweat? Not from burning calories down at the local gym rubbing his rock hard body up against other hard bodies, but from his own fevered desire. The local paper opened to the obituaries in one hand, and his other wrapped around his stiffened, purple-vein throbbing cock. Teeth clinched against each other as he madly stroked his inflamed member, picturing a tagged toe. Imagining running his hands up a pair of varicose laden thighs. Slowly tracing a cold and stiff labia, an ice cube clitoris with his burning tongue.

“Come here Gramma, let me melt away those blues.”

Anthony may beat off to the thought of necrophilia so much he gets a hard-on every time he opens the fridge, but he is no pervert.

You certainly may shout your socially programmed adjectives, but you cannot deny truth when it slaps you in the face like a cold dead fish. Anthony may choose to call himself a fighter, but he is first and foremost a lover. To take the steps he has is to exhibit intestinal fortitude most of us cannot even comprehend. All over this country of ours morgues and mortuaries are full, thousands of souls lay inside cold meat lockers, souls that only wanted to be loved.

To be touched.

To be caressed.

Not out of a sense of obligatory or familial sympathy, but true love and passion!

Come on, do you see that body?

Why waste it on the apathetic living?

Anthony chiseled his physique with years of discipline and sweat and blood and tears into one fine corpse-fucking gorgeous machine.

His paramour is 92 years young, and crying tears of joy as I write this.

As you accuse him of “desecration!,” she is sweetly whispering “consecration.”

It’s strange how and when ideas come to me for new designs, and today was a perfect example of that. I was taking a poop earlier and my brain shouted out ‘Oh yeah, scissor me!’, which came from an episode of South Park. Then my brain said ‘Scissors are doing it for themselves.’ So, I got inspired and whipped up these designs and put them up in the t shirt section of this site. Get one (or a bunch of them) today!

Far be it for me to suggest getting a flu shot from an 80 year-old woman in a crusty blue smock stained with chocolate flavored Ensure standing behind a folding table offering $30 dollar doses of influenza remedy in the middle of a Walgreens, but one thing I enthusiastically request of myself: Eric, don’t mix entire bottles of NyQuil with Keanu Reeve’s films!

Read on, dude!

My head is on fire.

I can feel giant drops of perspiration gathering against the surface, growing too heavy to withstand the pull of gravity and one by one they tumble over my brow and slide down my nose like obnoxious children. They fly through the air, laughing, until they crash like a dozen Humpty-Dumptys on my chest spraying tiny egg shell shrapnel everywhere. I wipe the front of my head in an effort to stem the flow of sweat and my skin sloughs off my skull between my fingers. It gathers against the palm of my hand like slices of lunch meat and it’s not really fair because I am quite hungry for some soup and a sandwich.

Sand Witch. Sorceress of the Spice. Wind swept tresses of black hair flowing out behind her, from underneath and out of a hat that cannot match the striking shade of midnight that grows from her scalp. Pale white skin of the moon that cannot be tainted by the sun that tries its best to burn her to cinders with no trial nor pyre. She pays no heed to its efforts as she skillfully navigates a Spice worm through the vast desert dessert with a pair of eyes like sugar frosted green gum drops…

Wait.

I can’t feel my feet.

I look down towards the ends of my legs to make sure that I still possess them and let out a small sigh of relief to find them when a strange sensation passes through my skin and my legs begin to grow longer and longer and oh, how nice of the room to go right ahead and stretch along with them so that they will have enough room instead of of just coiling up against the wall like tendrils of vanilla ice cream. And my big purple bed is an even bigger, purple-er bed, as it grew in proportion with my legs. I’ve always said that it is quite accommodating, now I have ample evidence.

My torso just turned into a Play-Doh Fun Factory.

I wonder if…wait, let me check.

Nope, of course not. Well, neither did my arms and my head seems to be of the same width and breadth as it was a few minutes ago. Oh, and I forgot all about that whole “no skin nor scalp” thing. That was weird. I thought for a moment that perhaps I had shaved my head again, but I’ve never been able to get it that smooth. I knock on it a few time just to see how hollow it sounds, and I’m not all that surprised to hear someone knocking back, yelling at me to keep the noise down.

Sorry.

I pick up the crumpled mask that was my face and put my hand inside of it and try to make it talk like a puppet. Eat drums. Eat drums! EAT DRUMS! GAAAHHHH! I poke two of my fingers through the eye holes and wiggle them back at my eyeballs, but I quickly pull them back through and drop my face to my side as an intense fear grips me as I wonder if my fingers were going to manifest themselves inside my skull and skewer my actual eyeballs on the ends of my fingers. I swallow hard imaging that my wrist is pressing against my larynx.

Larry Nix.

Wait, who’s wiggling my toes?

I look back down to find that someone’s hands are operating my feet like sock puppets. They’re making silhouette aminals against the wall of my bedroom and I watch as they contort my big toe away from the rest of my toes like the ears of a rabbit. I watch them moving back and forth across the wall, their shadows playfully cavorting together in an amicable fashion. I feel a slight tug at the end of my ankles and I quickly glance back to the source of the puppetry to find that both of my feet, with an audible pop, have disconnected themselves from my ankles. They’ve grown paws and tails and noses of their own. Big wondering eyes that keep shifting through the secondary colors of the wheel.

Two argyle bunnies that are hopping around on the edge of my bed.

Who, I demand, are you, and what have you done with my feet!

They both stop and stand up on their hind legs, testing my scent with their noses and walk right back towards me, up and over my knees. Each of them strolling up the length of their previous locale with an air of nonchalance.

I’m Peter S. Cottontail, Esquire.

I’m Rod “Rodentia” Lagomorph.

And together we’re WYLD RABBYTS!

They begin playing air guitar on the edge of my bed, their ears spreading wide from the tops of their heads as electricity starts climbing up to their tips like a Tesla coil. Sparks are flying from the tips of their fur and dancing in the air all around us and I can hear the mystical magic of Kip Winger’s fretwork making my ears ring. All the furniture in my bedroom is turning into hedges as the music gets louder. My green glass lamps shatter on either side of me. They twist and crunch as they grow roots and a trunk. The trunk sprouts branches that grab the emerald shards of glass right out of the air and they transform into burnt orange leaves hanging from their ends that cast shade over my hardwood floor that grass is now growing up from and covering the entirety of the walking space.

My bed has turned into a collection of rocks covered in purple lichen.

The rabbits high five each other and with a later bro! they hop across the floor towards a hole that has appeared in the corner of my room just to the side of one of the hedges and they both dive into it and disappear. I listen for about a minute waiting to hear an echo of them landing safely, and I hear a faint observation floating up from the depths.

Dude, this is a totally deep hole…