Pranking Glenn Danzig

Let me start by saying I'm sorry. I really mean it.

I never intended to hurt Glenn Danzig, he who has done so much to spread the joy and majesty of our dark overlord Satan and his sacraments—wolf's blood, black leather, and necrophilia-themed pop-punk music.

I honestly didn't intend to prank the interwebs by giving birth to a lie so monstrous, so powerfully sexy and debauched, that it would burn into the collective psyche of millions of lonely souls hungry for cheap thrills and absolute Satanic skank.

Let me just say it very plainly so that it is clearly understood. Spooky rock god Glenn Danzig was never going to be on a VH1 reality show called Rock of Love: Bride of Satan. There was never going to be any blindfolded nun deflowering contest. No strippers, no matter how drunk, desperate, or semi-naked they may have been, were ever going to enter into a legally-binding marriage with both Glenn Danzig and Satan.

Nope. Sorry. I know that it was a beautiful idea, but I made it all up. Rest assured, however, that my heart was in the right place. You see, I did it all for the pussy.

Back in early 2009, I had a brief drunken fling with a super-hot but ultimately boring wannabe Suicide Girl: pierced and sleeved out, platinum blond semi-dreads, a small pharmacy stuffed into the pockets of her black leather pentagram-embossed miniskirt. She worked at an ad agency, and liked Jameson whiskey, Bettie Page, Ambien, horror movies, Slayer, and Sepultura. She wore almost nothing except wife beaters and motorcycle boots, all the better to show off the dragons, Samurai warriors, and assorted swirly Asian tattoos carved into her porcelain white skin. I tried my best to act nonchalant the first time I saw her pierced and deforested lady parts with the letters TCB in an elegant script right over Ground Zero. It's an Elvis Presley thing. Look it up.

We didn't spend much time talking, and in fact, she barely spoke at all unless she was ordering drinks or ringing up her dealer. But she did like to discuss a guilty pleasure we shared: The trashy reality TV show Rock of Love with aging Loathario/hair transplant victim Brett Michaels, former singer for the 80s hair band Poison.

This was the season where they loaded up a tour bus with a gaggle of aging strippers, escorts, fetish models, and one sincerely fucked-up DJ/MC called Lady Tribe. All the ladies were put through a series of challenges, involving copious amounts of jiggling, hair-pulling, nip slips, vodka, three-ways, and extra-strength Valtrex. DJ Lady Tribe distinguished herself from the pack by writing rap lyrics on the back of an STD checklist and by shoving a test tube full of liquor into the vagina of another contestant while competing for attention in a body shots contest. Their coveted prize was the chance to make sweet, sweet love with Brett Michaels' exotic collection of sweaty bandanas/wig hats.

Rock of Love Bus was not only a masterpiece of debasement and humiliation, but I'm pretty sure that it was also one of the key prophesies foretold in the Book of Revelations. I mean, if this wasn't the seventh seal of the apocalypse, it was at least the fifth or sixth. In addition to being a low-water mark for Western "civilization," the show was a really big hit for VH1. Recent scientific studies proved that it was literally impossible to look away from the glitter-encrusted stripper spectacle.

Ms. Suicide Girl would have been a good fit for the show. She had the look, and the record collection. We both watched every Sunday night and texted back and forth.

"I think Frenchie barfed on her diaphragm … sloppy seconds?"

"Brett Michaels' penis is obviously flame-retardant and covered in scales like a Gila monster."

"Did blondie just shart?"

"They all sharted … Rules are rules."

Some couples have a favorite song or funny story about how they met (online). We had a skanky reality show, a shared affinity for loud guitars and very little else upon which to build a relationship. But what can I say? She was hot and I wanted to impress (bone) her.

So, in a fit of insomnia/boredom, I wrote a funny story about metal god Glenn Danzig being on a new season of Rock of Love. I called it Rock of Love: Bride of Satan with Glenn Danzig.

I wrote it really quickly, but spent a fair amount of time formatting it as an official-looking press release—and then posted it on VH1's Rock of Love Bus message board. I jacked the VH1 logo and used that as my avatar. My message board name was VH1 Producer. It's not there anymore. I broke the system. All their message boards are now moderated and carefully vetted.

Read the full "press release" over at VICE.