Joe’s 200th Post: A Celebration of Self-Congratulatory Masturbation
A retrospective of the greatest early works by a modern literary visionary, Joe Thrashnkill.
Once in a generation, a brilliant talent will materialize from the æther and dazzle the Earth with his disarming wit, devastating good looks, and unmatched modesty. A lucky few have the privilege to witness the early days of this blossoming star, but soon the rest of the world will catch on to the electrifying skill of the young artist. On this occasion, my 200th post for revolutionary online Internet website “Toilet of Hell”, I present some highlights from my early oeuvre
to goose the page views on posts I spent a long time writing and no one read to better educate Thrashnkill novices.
Bleeding-edge contemporary art of the 80s and 90s is compared and contrasted with Metallica’s mid-90s output. Reading this article will grant you 3 hours of art history credit through the University of Phoenix registrar.
In this painstakingly scientific model, I singlehandedly upended the current models for assigning sub-genre classifications to heavy metal music. Spoiler: “jazz” makes no sense.
I saw Van Halen on a Tinder date and it went about as well as you’d expect
Not content to simply analyze scientific models and discuss dreary old art, I opted to conduct field work in the service of further journalistic exploration. With this article, I used the latest technology to communicate with something called a “woman”, and convince her to accompany me to a Van Halen concert.
I delved deeper into my field work. As I travelled across these great United States to ponder the big questions: how can a band recover from vicious sound booth issues, will Gwar survive the death of Dave Brockie, and why is a strange man buying me so many drinks?
Once again, I subjected myself to extreme measures in the service of quality music journalism; this time by listening to every note in the Anal Cunt discography and ranking their best material.
If you’ve enjoyed these, and other heartbreaking works of my staggering genius, please call Penguin Publishing and tell them to give me a book deal. I’m starting to suspect they haven’t read the manuscript I sent them, even though I covered it in delicious raw fish. Stupid asshole penguins.