Over the past year or so I have developed what has been described by friends and family as “an unhealthy and uncomfortable obsession with Jerry Sandusky.” It really kicked into high gear last November when The Dusk, as I affectionately call him, inexplicably agreed to be interviewed by Bob Costas. If you haven’t seen it I can’t recommend watching it enough. A heartburn inducing journey through the obviously medicated mind of the Willy Wonka of child molesters that would make Grimace grimace. Truly some of the most brutally awkward stuff this side of the BTK confessions.
As a vocalist for a permanently local hobby metal band I decided that he made the perfect lyrical subject for the EP I was writing, as well as the supplemental five part hip-hopera (available only at Sam Goody stores). A beloved old man, who was part of one of the most storied programs in college football history, starts a charity for underprivileged and at risk youths, later honored by President Bush (41), that he turns into a grooming facility for the soon to be molested. What could be better, I ask you? Metal is supposed to be all “dark and scary and stuff.” What is more “dark and scary and stuff” than that!?!? Well I’ll tell you what in the next paragraph! Away we go!
In mid-August my former boss asked me to come by the bar he owns to smoke a bowl and catch up on stuff. We’re talking and laughing, just having a real good old fashioned “time." He asks me about the band and I tell him that just yesterday we paid the initial deposit to start the record pressing process for our new EP “The Tickler.” Instantly he knows it’s named after Sandusky and he replies with a laugh, “Well Jim, have you heard what those crazy fuckers over in Netherlands are doin’?” I had not. “They’re takin’ kids, fuckin’ ‘em, takin’ pictures of ‘em, and eaten’ ‘em. Interpol says they got a picture of a one year old child in a roasting pan like a piglet. Had an apple in his mouth and everything.” I immediately raced out to my car, then realized I was blazed out of my mind so I drive home real slow and deliberate like, checking the rearview every two seconds. I get home and start reading about this giant international child-rape-cannibalism super secret no girls allowed club. At this point there are 43 child molester dudes in seven countries and 140ish molested kids, the youngest of which was 19 days old. Unholy mother of shit, one of the members was a fucking childrens puppeteer for chist’s sake!
I am flabbergasted, after poking around and reading for a few more hours the regret started to sink in. In one article they talked about a conversation between two of the members where they were talking about eating some poor kids butt for easter, LAST EASTER! This information had been readily available at the time I wrote my EP! Now what am I supposed to do? Write another child fucking album? I get a sharp subject and now it’s my entire being? I can only write albums about eating kid-butt for easter? No, I had a window, I took my shot, and I just missed my mark by a margin thinner than a child’s butt hair. Oh well, you live and learn I suppose.
Now I know some nerdlinger is going to come along and be all “But Albert Fish sexed a bunch of kids to death and ate them.” or “So and so killed way more people, he’s totally the most evil bro, bro.” Or maybe it will be some high minded worldly intellectual type that will say something like “Don’t you read Vice Magazine? ...African warlords and stuff” Nay, my brothers and sisters, nay. The International Menagerie of Child Fucking Puppeteers and Dinner Club are the most evil. Even more evil than your mom when I don’t rim her properly. The end.