Couple fights to name baby Metallica.
STOCKHOLM, Sweden - Metallica may be a cool name for a heavy metal band, but a Swedish couple is struggling to convince officials it is also suitable for a baby girl.
Those Swedes sure do love the metal.
Somewhere in the south east (one of the Carolina’s I believe) I manage to introduce Kelly Ogden’s head to the concrete in a high velocity meeting. Fortunately she chose not to call her lawyer. This guy is fucked. Its not bad enough that he feels like like shit for dropping the girl on the floor. She has to empty his account too.
By the age of eighteen I had consumed an ungodly amount of drugs. It not as if I left the house on a daily basis with an implicit desire to seek out and experience strange and exciting new kicks. The fact of the matter is that drugs most often found their way to me. Granted I did by choice immerse myself in situations where drugs seemed to be the common currency.
While harder drugs and hallucinogens were save for the most special occasions. My daily stock and trade was marijuana. I often wonder how without jobs we managed to satiate our near unquenchable desire for grass. When cash was low however we had our methods. During our time at the Cattle Club we devised a hideous and effective little con for the procurement of marijuana. On a night when we found ourselves lacking in incendiaries we would head out to the back patio to find our mark. Grass smokers are painfully easy to spot. The most effective way to keep your dope smoking covert is to keep it entirely out in the open. No square would expect a doper to have the audacity to just stand there smoking grass. Would he? In the desperation to make it appear as if they’re not up the anything most folks may as well raise a bright red flag emblazoned with the words ‘We’re smoking dope over here!’. Huddled together in small groups, heads alternately bent down with faces awash in amber flickering light it’s as if they’re begging to be caught.
Once we had a confirmed visual ID phase two of the plan would go into effect. We would casually walk back into the club leaving the dopers secure in the belief that we were clueless of their actions. Within moment of our departure two of The Cattle Clubs finest would purposefully descend upon them. Being the incredibly friendly bouncers that they were captured pot heads were often let go with a stern warning. However, they never left with their grass. That was ours, a well earned payment for helping to maintain law and order.
When my father wasn’t dealing with live stock invading our house he was often busied with the logistics of home surgery. It seemed as if my Dad always had some kind of strange growth popping up on his neck or back. Being the man that he was he rarely chose to spend the money to have it handled properly. I would be in my room reading or playing video games on my Commodore 64 when the call would come in.
“Jaz! Come here. I need your help!”
I learned to dread the horrible phrase “I need your help”. Those four words most often meant that I would spend the rest of the day watching while my Dad swore at a broken lawnmower that would never work again or I would be asked to perform some gross and nauseating task that no child should ever be subject to. I would begrudgingly walk into the bathroom to find him standing there with a flashlight, a couple of mirrors and some towels.
“You see this thing here!?” he would say pointing to the back of his neck.
There just under flesh would be some strange growth at least the size of an eraser. He would calmly explain that I, his only son would have to remove it for him because no matter how he angled the mirrors he just could see it properly. His request was always followed by a great amount of reluctance on my part. After which I would finally break down and take the dirty and dull X-acto knife that he had been trying to force into my hand. He would bend his head down over the sink and hand me a rag.
“Just cut that fucking thing out of there!”
Perhaps it was because I was never provided with the proper tools but I was always amazed at how resilient human flesh is to slicing. After a few tenuous passes he would insist that it didn’t hurt and that I needed to push harder. I would force the tip of the blade into his flesh cutting a deep gouge into his neck. At which point a white or yellowish mass would breach the crimson gash crowing as if his neck were giving birth to a cartilaginous blob. He’d slap a band aid over the hole in his neck and spend the next half hour to an hour inspecting whatever it was I had removed from his body.
“Would you look at this fucking thing!” he would say as he pushed it toward my mothers face for closer inspection.
“Throw that thing a-way!” She would demand thoroughly disgusted.
But he never did. All the odd pieces of gristle and viscera that came out of his body ended up in a mason jar that he kept in his truck. Perhaps he kept it there to show off to his co workers.
“My boy cut this out of me last night!”
“No anesthetic. No stitches. No nothin’!”
I’m sure they would the would turn and tell him to get that disgusting shit out of their faces because they were trying to eat and that he was just as bizarre as the day is long.
