RAT IN WINTER 2011- THE YEAR OF THE RAT

***A guest blog by Ben, the Rat Blogger. Original post date 2/3/2011***

Human scum is no doubt cursing Jack Frost and old man Winter right about now. The blustery hands of glacial malaise are reaching their icicled fingertips all around the country as I blog this and stay warm and I couldn't be happier. You see, I'm a rat. I hate humans. In fact I hate you all so much that I am tickled gray with a slightest touch of pink by everything that I shall tell you here. This winter has garnered some stupid pet names. "Snowmageddon" being the most ridiculous of the bunch. When the going gets tough and things go wrong human scum try to lighten the load by applying affectionate monikers to their misery. I have never understood this but I have never understood humans..... so there you go.

It's confession time for me and tones of enlightenment shall ring in the ears of all you sacks of meat filling that disguise yourself with a superficial pie crust called flesh. Heavy emphasis on the word crust there by the way. You can all disperse with the silly pet names that you are compiling to cuddle what is really happening. Your shrubbery is dying and your nobby pea parts are recoiling from shrinkage because this is the year of the Rat.

On February second of each year the vain and veiny population gets all excited with the appearence of a great prophet who will supposedly be the missing link between whether the winter will soon end or drag on for much longer than considered necessary to races besides Eskimos. What many of you may or may not know is that these prophets are actually of the rodent family. The rodent family is very large and includes the usual suspects Rats and mice, along with such pussyfied little wanna-be's as squirrels and chipmunks and.... yes, your beloved groundhog.

You can cease gasping and rest easy though as besides some genetic similarities that garner a text book definition, these grossly overweight prophets of yours have nothing to do with the filth and the majesty that is Rattus Maximus. Rats are truest and purest filth at its most magnificent. Whereas groundhogs are merely fat slobs that drink way too much wood cider and stuff their faces with bugs,nuts and berries. They have been hailed as celebrities and glorified by idiotic human waste of life that has taken to giving them names like Woody the woodchuck, Balzac Billy, Buckeye Chuck, and the silliest and most pathetic of all.... Gus.

Human existence is empty and they desperately scramble to fill this void of soul by clinging to tales both short and tall for comfort. It started with that filthy hippie of the pre-Woodstock sandal and stone era. But as humans evolved and inbreeding became more relevant to the survival and duration of the species the natural order of things grew far more deranged. This was where legend leaned heavier onto the mythology of beasts. The Easter bunny and shit like that. Even creature/human cross breeds like leprechauns seem to be very popular in drinking areas and these days film and the internet seem to be overrun with trolls and ass goblins.

But of the animal lore celebrated by all of you wasteful want-it-alls, my distant relatives the groundhogs have been hailed as saviors of season and despite the fact that surprisingly nobody has been stupid enough to adopt one and attempt domesticating these embarassments to my race they have become somewhat of a pop culture icon. Make no mistake about it, I nor any of my sensible vermin assemblage would ever wish to be associated with something as utterly putrescent as pop culture. Where normally that which can be considered of putrescence might be held near and dear and therefore enormously appealing to a Rats tastes and tendencies, when I say that pop culture is vile this is not said with affection or revelry. In the most palpable of terms I would like to say that pop culture can lick the bung from my filthy Rat asshole.

Still, pop culture seems to have an annoying lifespan like that of a cockroach and Gus and Chuck and Woody and Billy and company are yearly heralded as being the true kings of the moment when you people wish to get your hopes up and juggle prayers to that dirty hippie with "ooohhs" and "ahhhhs" of affection driven by the stupidity of your lenient standards for cuteness.

Each year all around the country, armies of morons who feel that it's okay to be drunk as fuck in the immature hours of the day act upon their most callow whims by cheering on a slovenly hog that steps from his hole simply because he wishes to pass gas. Yes it is true folks. That is all that these creatures whom you all seem to adore so deeply are doing when their every move is being recorded and broadcasted all around your airwaves. Clouds. Sunshine. Shadows. These are all myths created by storytellers with otherwise fading memories and wilting dingleberries between their legs. When the land pig retreats from his lair all that he is hoping to accomplish is sparing his brood from the spoils of his smelly rectum. It is actually rather amusing to us all in knowing that humans are so nit-witted in believing this act of expulsion and relief is about something so absurd as the conditions of their atmosphere. You truly are the most pitiful and self-centered race of beings on this compost pile of a planet and the hullabaloo surrounding an animal fart is but one drop of confirmation in the great big toilet bowl of our existence.

The true warriors of the weather are the rats of the world. Our genetic stylings have been constructed like a filthy machine that is able to trek through climates of all extremes. Polar bears might elicit more of that "ooohh-ing" and "ahhhh-ing" thing, but we rock the cold weather like its nobodies business. In fact, to speak for a moment about polar bears, while these animals do tend to live and breed in regions far frostier than what us rats usually have to bother with, their primary method of thermal employment is a microwaved secretion that is composed from eating Eskimos and shitting them out. The technical term of usage is freezues ignitous, or as it is more commonly referred to as, "freezer burn".

Eskimos are world renowned for eating copious amounts of fish sticks as well as consuming their own feces on several occasions. The proteins that have been broken down in their waste have been converted to ice-o-topes due to the crisp temperatures of their blood and along with all of the mercury that is found in fish sticks, when a polar bear eats one of these human popsicles it coats the inner walls of their bodies with a plasmic shell that only could only thaw itself should a polar bear ever fall into a lava bath within the caverns of a volcano. Since polar bears are not normally known to inbreed and usually not found to be retarded, they are smart enough to never climb a volcano and jump into a vat of magma so this greatly aids in their freeze protected conditioning. Always so eagerly charmed by the cuteness of animals overall, and particularly these polar bears, now you can know the truth the next time you see one of these creatures and envy its adaptation to frosty conditions.

So, where was I? 

Me-me-me. The Rat. This is all about me. The winter. You see, while the polar bears are hailed for their cuteness and the winter spell is thought to be made or broken by the groundhog, the truth is that it is us Rats who are the real champions of the season here. Just because we are filth ridden with disease and therefore generally frowned upon, we have long been deprived of our rightful place in the past and modern day folklore of Winter legend.

It is not the groundhog who knows whether you will soon be basking in the rays of effervescent light or cowering in the dark as furious storms ravage your electrical sensibilities. These corpulent scoundrels have actually been polluting your air with their stinky farts. Ozone depletion. Global warming. You can save your studies and theories right now. The real culprit is the very same critter fuck that you ogle on that second day in February. Your cute and cuddly little foretelling winter beast has destroyed your atmosphere with their rabid flatulence. Meanwhile you, the moronic race of sheep shifters, screech and holler and seem rather impressed by an animal that not only means nothing to your puny lives and goose-bump ridden skin but the irony of all irony is that these animals are in fact of rodent descent and they hate you. So there.
Rats actually do know the weather though. None of you would ever realize this because you have never once thought to ask. Do keep your panties on there big boys and girls because if you did ask any of us for so much as the time or type of day we would probably lie to your face and spit at your backs. That is how we roll.

But do know this, Rats have one of the highest senses of perception known to all kind. These groundhogs you hold dear to your hearts? They will keep farting and ruining your mother earth until father time rolls off the bed and the air will reek of plague and by then it will be too late to save yourselves. In fact it is already too late, so fuck off.

If you do not believe anything that I am telling you I do have one form of proof that I can offer you techno-babies and wire tappers. The myth of the groundhog predicting Winter was actually proven false in 1997 when a man named Rasputin Bieber tried to capture video of one of your precious prairie sows named Porky Pine-nut. He held court for hours awaiting the appearance of this fat tub of furry lard and when the porkster did manage to crawl from his hole, it snuck behind a tree to hide from all of the idiots heckling him from lawn chairs and not only did he pass gas but he took a gigantic shit that resembled a mutant chinchilla. Bieber managed to film the entire movement, both vapor and solid, and he posted it on the internet before disappearing. Still, history has a way of rearing its ugly snout even if you try to smother it with an Oriental rug and so I am certain that if you search hard enough you will be able to find either the video or a rumored audio of Porky grunting before, during and afterwards.

So in case you are wondering, the score is Rats won and humans frozen. The Winter is going to cripple your feeble species this year and if you think it is ever going to get better rather than worse, just know that I have actually befriended a few of the groundhogs and me and the boys now bring them beans every February first. Snowmageddon? How about blowmageddon? As in blow it out your ass like it's groundhog day. Oooooh-zone and global wahhhhhhrming indeed you motherfuckers. Go ahead and try and stay warm by rubbing your frosty flesh and brittle bones together. I'm going to have myself a great big laugh and then take a shit and wipe it with some green toilet paper that is decorated with images of more puny humans that your kind likes to call presidents or something. 

THE 10 BOOKS THAT MADE ME THE SICK FUCK I AM TODAY

Ever since I can remember I have always liked the craziest horror movies and listened to the loudest or weirdest music out there. I don't know how, but I just always seemed to gravitate towards this stuff on my own.

I rarely listen to anybody about anything. People like what they like and I tend to disagree with most people. But I seem to have this sickness radar and it's come in rather handy all these years. I'm a sick fuck. What else can I say?

How did I, Gitche Manitou, get to be such a sick fuck maybe you ask?

I once had a knack for going into any store, record/movie or book, and picking out the craziest and coolest shit they had for sale. This didn't always necessitate quality merchandise. But I will say that I hit a filthy home run way more times than I struck out.

When I was a young reader I raided my moms book collection and pretty much any other source I could find. There were so many books that meant something to me back then and even now they still do.

I could go on and on about books that affected me one way or another over the course of my existence. I thought it would be fun to narrow it down to the ten most essential books that I could think of. The ones I have read multiple times and still find myself enamored with. The ones that made me the weirdo I am today. They're not all blood and guts and unbridled sickness. But they are somehow horror related and they were the first to affect me so deeply that I felt they deserved a blog of their own.

1) The Drive in by Joe R. Lansdale

I discovered Joe R. Lansdale early on and have been there for the ride ever since. If you are a fan yourself well then you know what a wild ride it has been. The first book I read of his was The Nightrunners. I just remember seeing that crazy looking cover and thinking how that book just had to be awesome. When The Drive In came out though, oh man.... that was it for me. This guy had made a fan for life.

How do I describe The Drive In to someone who has never read it? Truthfully, I have no idea. When I first read it I had never read anything quite like it. Now, over 25 years later, there is still nothing else like it. Well, except for maybe the two sequels it hell spawned. Think of it as a popcorn movie in book form. It's bizarre, it's gory, and it's probably the most fun you'll ever have with a book in your hand that doesn't involve monkey love.



2) Buried Secrets by Edward Humes

I have read so many true crime books that it's sometimes easy to get them mixed up. Q: Was Harvey Glatman the guy that boiled his girlfriends body parts and served it to homeless people?  A: No. That was Daniel Rakowitz.
Q: Did Gary Ridgway kill "orange socks?" A: No. That would be Henry Lee Lucas. Though Gary Ridgway was the Green River killer.

You see what I mean?

I haven't really been much for true crime over the last twenty years or so. My tastes have changed and I truthfully don't give that sub-genre much thought. But one book that has stayed with me all these years later is this one. It tells the tale of the Matamoros death cult in the 80's and their evil leader Adolfo Constanzo. I just remember reading this one alone in my room late at night and being genuinely creeped out. I have actually read like five books about this particular voodoo inspired murder spree. This is not only the best of the bunch it's the best true crime book I have ever read.



3) The Thief of Always by Clive Barker

Like Joe R. Lansdale, I got into Clive Barker very early on. Thanks to Stephen King actually. I don't really put much stock in other peoples opinions but when King claimed that Barker was "the future of horror", well that was an endorsement that even I couldn't ignore. Also like Lansdale, Clive Barker doesn't really seem to be much for writing flat out horror lately. Yet still both of these guys continuously find themselves labeled as such. I don't really care what people call it. It's all great writing to me, and Clive Barker and Joe R. Landale are pretty much my favorite two writers in existence.

A lot of people give Clive shit for expanding on his so called "horror roots." I love everything he's done, horror or not. I mean, people act like he just all of a sudden switched gears. But if you have been reading him from the beginning you know that he's been an experimental writer from early on and he continues to go further and further with each masterpiece. With so many said masterpieces to choose from, if I had to pick one work of his that stood out for me then and still resonates just as hard today, it would be this one.

Thief of Always was the first of Barkers books to be labeled a "childrens story." The current terminology is "young adult." Of course he's been doing the "Abarat" series for over ten years now, but this one came first. It sort of took me back to that whole Willy Wonka type of storytelling. These are childrens stories only by technicality. They're both very dark and that is what I love about Thief of Always. The first time I read it I was floored. Even still I find myself floored no matter how many times I read it. As of right now, it stands at three.



4) Night Shift by Stephen King

Okay, so speaking of Stephen King, well .... here you go. I like Stephen King well enough. I completely respect his contributions to the horror genre and I shall give him mad props always. He does have some stuff I really like though he is not necessarily one of my favorite writers or anything. But this collection of short stories holds a great significance for me because it's the first short story anthology I can recall reading. There isn't a bad story in the bunch either. I happen to have an enormous appreciation for this format and this book can absolutely be credited with jump starting that.


5) Seductions by Ray Garton

When I was like twelve years old there was this book by Judy Blume that got passed around and enjoyed by every kid in my class because of its naughty bits. When I got into high school this book took that ones place. All because of one scene. It simply was THE book everybody had to read. If you haven't read it then I won't ruin it for you. It's a great one no doubt. This is Ray's first novel and while I do certainly believe he has other books that are far better, this one will always have a special place in my heart.



6) The Manitou by Graham Masterton

Speaking of special places and hearts and all that, well .... I am the Gitche Manitou and this is the book that gave me my name. So hell yeah I am gonna shower praise all over it! One of my very favorite writers. Kind of like my father, Graham is indeed a master who has released more books in his lifetime than a whole group of other writers might when all combined. He does it all too. He has an entire back catalogue of historical fiction titles. He writes thrillers. He even has a whole series of sex books. To many though he is known as one of the true masters of horror and The Manitou was where it all started for both him and for me. I read this book and saw the movie when it came out and loved them! How could I not? They're about me after all.



7) The Best of Roald Dahl by Roald Dahl

Here is another short story anthology. Not exactly in the horror genre but Roald Dahl is without a doubt one of the darkest writers out there. Though primarily known for childrens books such as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda and James and the Giant Peach Dahl is also one of the true masters of the short story format. There are many other books that collect his stories, and while some might be more complete than this one once again we're talking a first here.

Dahl does it dark and his stories almost always have a twist. By now I am guessing anyone who reads some of these tales for the first time could say "Oh, I saw that one coming!" or "I've seen that done before." But most of these stories are 50 plus years old. So whatever you have seen done you must give props to the man who did it first. This is one of the best short story collections I have ever read as, like the previously mentioned Night Shift, there is not a bad story to be found.



8) Boy's Life by Robert R. Mccammon

Here is another writer that I discovered early on and have been with ever since. I was actually reading Mccammon even before Barker and Lansdale. He was one of my favorites in the 70's and he's still one of them today. This book is his true masterpiece, in my opinion and lots of others. There is just nothing like it. Boy's Life is one of those unique reading experiences that has something for everybody. Yes, it is horror. But at its core this novel is one of the best coming of age stories there ever was, is or ever going to be.

Many authors feel like they have to deliver their own coming of age saga to the world. But none have done it so masterfully. It might not exactly be gory or sick or anything and it probably seems kind of tame for me to mention on such a list. But this book completely dazzled me in a way that is just all too rare. It changed the way I see horror novels. I mean, there are a lot of people who just don't get this genre. Regardless of how deep such a feeling goes I would pick this as one book that everybody should read. For that alone I put it on this list. Ultimately this list is about books that have stayed with me. Boy's Life will stay with me forever. So there you go.



9) American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

It might seem cheap for me to include this one here. It's not technically a horror book. I actually figure it as more of a satire of both the serial killer sub-genre and yuppie culture. Much of it had me laughing my ass off but when it comes to being downright disgusting American Psycho is unmatched in its vile and over the top description of the crimes our anti-hero commits. Sometimes it's so over the top that it might seem corn ball-ish to readers of real horror. Still, it's one of those books that travels on roads that serve no other purpose than to see just how far we can be expected to go. It not only takes us there and back but it laughs in our faces and then makes us feel as if we have been thrown from a still moving vehicle at its conclusion. Say what you will about it, but to this day I have never read anything so hideous and yet so damn entertaining.



10) Kill Whitey by Brian Keene

I was one of those kids who always had a book in their hand. Sometimes I would even read two or three books at the same time. For whatever reason, when I hit around the age of thirty, I kind of dropped off reading for a while. I started reading again though. Since my literary rebirth I haven't looked back. This was the book that made that rebirth possible.

Brian Keene is one of the premiere names in modern day horror. He has several other books that he is much more well known for than this one. It could even be argued that while he has done books with such horror based concepts as zombies, giant worms and horny goat men Kill Whitey is not even really a horror book at all. Instead it plays out more like Quentin Tarantino directing the Terminator with strippers as garnish. Whatever you want to call it though this one is as much fun as I have had reading a book probably since the book that started us off here, Joe Lansdale's The Drive In.

The greater irony to be found here is that I was following suggestions from some friends on new authors for me to check out and coming up all zeroes in my findings. I actually read Brian Keene based on someone telling me NOT to read Brian Keene. As luck would have it here, Keene is just about my favorite new writer ever, and by new writer I mean within the last ten years. Everything the guy has done is top notch. But once again, we're waxing nostalgia here and this was where it all started for me. Ever since I read this book I felt like a fire had been lit in my creative ass cavity and that flame continues to burn to this very day. Writers have to be voracious readers too. Thanks, Brian.

So there it is, folks. The ten books that made the Gitche Manitou the creative Hell spawned weirdo wordsmith and all around sexy beast that I am today. If you are not familiar with any of these titles or writers I highly suggest you change that as quickly as you can. You can thank me later if you want. But it's cool. Us sick fucks gotta look out for each other.

THE DAWN AND DEMISE OF A TRUE BLACK HEART

                                                         His name it was Dead
                                                         and soon he would be-
                                                         no one knew why-
                                                         he was damaged you see.

                                                    People found him weird
                                                    though he hardly spoke-
                                                    but he sang like the devil-
                                                    and that was no joke.

                                                          One night alone-
                                                             under moon that was freezing-
                                                           he picked up a knife
                                                              and found this quite pleasing-
                                                         slicing his wrists-
                                                            blood drenching his clothes-
                                                          still he was alive-
                                                         so his frustration grows.

                                          Then picking up a gun
                                          with his soul aiming South-
                                          this man they called Dead
                                          put the barrel in his mouth-
                                          and brains then were splattered
                                          when Euronymous came home.
                                    It looked like a casserole
                                        pouring out of his dome.

                                                     Pictures were taken
                                                    and necklaces were made-
                                                    from pieces of his brain-
                                                   giving black metal shade.

                                           Those pieces were lost
                                              yet a legacy lives on-
                                         black hearts forever
                                               not just rising at dawn-

                                    and music? There's little-
                                       supplying carnage and joy
                                    from the voice of this Dead
                                        who had to destroy.

                       Not fit for this world
                            or so it was said-
                                    and still he lives on-
                                           even though he is dead.