When I was in the 8th grade, I picked up a copy of White Zombie’s La Sexorcista: Devil Music Volume 1.  Led by techno-acid-horror-kitsch-retro-art singer, Rob Zombie, it was a take on rock I hadn’t heard before.  I still love that album and all other Rob Zombie music projects that followed.

When I was 25, I watched House of 1,000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects back-to-back under some very strange, sweaty circumstances.  *giggity*   When I look back on that evening, the circumstances are condemnable at least.  However, the movies are not.  1,000 Corpses and Rejects raised the bar for the slasher flick in a way that Hostel and Saw  tried at but failed.  They played on the basic vulnerable “this could happen to anyone at any time under any circumstance” horror that the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre parlayed.  That’s how I saw it anyway.  Plus, Hostel was retarded as shit and the Saw series became too formulaic.  I’ll take Otis Driftwood quoting Charles Manson and wearing your face over Jigsaw the handicapped sadist any day.

Anyway.  Rob Zombie proved (especially with The Devil’s Rejects) that horror is still alive and well if dealt with properly.

Then Zombie did something I wasn’t sure I approved of.  He sought to remake Halloween.  What the hell, right?  I learned about this at the same time that there were talks of remaking Cronenberg’s The Fly (and don’t say it’s a remake of the Vincent Price film, or I will…I don’t know…snap your arm in an arm wrestling match).  

Okay, I didn’t just disapprove.  I was pissed.  Great!  They’re remaking The Fly, possibly my favorite horror movie of all time, and now Rob Zombie is remaking Halloween.  Fucking great, Rob.  Now I have to hate you.

He totally passed, though.  What an amazing job.  He didn’t just “re-shoot” Halloween like Psycho was reshot but with color in the late 90s.  Instead, he paid tribute to the original, reinventing the story from a different and brilliantly shocking angle.  A true reimaging.  Both Halloweens are now seperate and wonderful entities.

Halloween was amazing.  It helped sweeten the soured taste in my mouth of all of the Ringesque movies that promised so much but delivered nothing.

And now, Halloween II is set to chop into the minds of pop horror buffs once again.  August ‘09, putos.  I am so excited about this.  I watched the preview, and I am already sold.

I’m not even second guessing the man again.  A few years ago I said that Rob Zombie may singlehandedly bring back horror.  I’m going to go ahead and retract that statement, especially since Sam Raimi of Evil Dead fame just unleashed Drag Me to Hell.  But I think Rob Zombie is going to be a MAJOR driving force in the reinvention of good horror.

Thanks Rob Zombie.  Keep it up.

-David C. Garcia “ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch.”

Idiots and douchegoblins have spent countless hours contemplating answers to the age old question: What makes a man?

“A real man provides for his family.” - Sap

“A real man is in touch with his feelings.” - Wuss

“A real man fights for what he believes in.” - Dumbass

“A real man would be able to pleasure me.” - Meggie… Wait! What?!? Fuck!

Whatever.  You buttmonkeys go ahead and spend all the time you want thinking that gobbletygook and hullabaloo.  I’ll be sitting here watching Steven Seagal’s Out For Justice and listening to his acoustic masterpiece, Songs From the Crystal Cave–SIMULTANEOUSLY!

Because I know.  I know what makes a man:

An average-sized wiener and a couple of lopsided testes.  What’s up ladies?

Yeah, I’m rockin’ what it takes to be a man, but I’m also representing something else: A sleeveless shirt.  I’ve got the package to make me a hot-blooded hombre.  But when I need that extra edge, that little something to supercharge my masculinity, I slip into one of my many BADASS SLEEVELESS SHIRTS.

And as a full-fledged badass, I need that little something all the time.  You got it.  I wear sleeveless shirts constantly.  Everywhere I go.

When I came to work today, I was jamming to a cassette tape called 200 Animal Mating Sounds on my iWalkman.  I let the soothing sounds of track #127, “Musky Male Moose” motivate me. I was sporting my Tuesday Morning Sleeveless, a faded “Bad Boy” shirt I nicknamed “Lady Killer.”   I originally broke Lady Killer in at the gym while I “shredded my guns” with some intense curls.

My boss saw me, peeped my gear, sprouted a fat vein in his forehead and shouted, “Goddammit, Garcia!  Are you TRYING to piss me off, or are you just that stupid?”

This is the kind of challenge to my dominance and badassery I face every day, and as my homeboy Woody Harrelson said in the Oscar-deserving classic,  White Men Can’t Jump, this shit “ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.”  I promptly dropped into a horse-stance, cocking back one hand at the hip and confidently thrusting the second forward.  With the fury of a donkey-punched feminist, I roared something indiscernible and kung-fu sounding as my fist passionately raped the air.  I stared into The Boss’ eyes with determination.  And yes, my headphones were still on.  Track #129, “Rough Riding Rhino.”

“What does that even mean, Garcia? That stupid thing you just did, what does that mean?  Are you fucking retarded?  Get to your office!  I’m not paying you to pretend to be cool!”  The vein in The Boss’ forehead reached critical mass.  I wanted to poke it, but I was kind of stuck in my horse stance.

I wiggled my way out of my intimidating pose, gave The Boss a nonchalant “pfff” and strutted to my office, making sure my pecs did a dance as I walked by.

Had I arrived at work in a vagina button-up or a lame-ass polo with sleeves, things would have been a lot different.  I probably would have lost The Boss’ respect or even been asked to go work/assimilate with the rest of the staff.  That is most certainly not my style.  My sleeveless shirt is like a magnificent shield against all things stupid.

These pythons must be free.  My sensual shoulder flagellum, or what the haters call “nasty-ass arm hair” needs to breathe.  When I raise my hand to high-five another badass or swat at a mosquito trying to eat my pheromone-rich blood, I want the breeze to cool my Old Spice Original Scent-caked armpit that’s been fully exposed through the 26-inch anti-sleeve.

Sleeveless shirts, motherfucker.  Only to be worn by TRUE BADASSES.

- David C. Garcia, the man with no sleeves

I had a little scare today.  I was doing what I do best:

Surfing the Interwebz, pretending to do actual “work” at my “job” and getting my news from the Twitternet.  Suddenly, I got this tweet:

I was all like, “AWWWW HAIL NO!”

I guess my boss heard me.  He called my office and blabbered, “Blah, blah, blah, paying you to do a job, blah, blah, get to work, blah, blah.”

I politely replied, “Stop player-hatin’, G.  Ain’t you heard the news, homebread?  Swayze be kickin’ it with da Grim Reaper!  Ya hearrrrrd?”

“Jesus Christ, Garcia, shut the fuck up!  You’re on thin ice right now.  Get back to work!”

“Yeah, a’ight…dayuum.”

“And Garcia!”

“”Sup, naggle?”

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING BLACK, YOU SPIC PIECE OF SHIT!”

“A’ight. Word.  Damn, bitch.”

If I hadn’t been overcome with an unthinkable sadness, I would have busted a cap in that bitch’s ass fo’ sheezy. 

***

Was it true?  Was Patrick Swayze, or as I know him, The Swayze, dead?  He couldn’t be.  The Swayze has been with me through every important benchmark that has defined my badass life. 

When I was forced to break up greasy bar fights while simultaneously pissing off crime bosses, I turned to Road House for inspiration.  When I wanted to make out and sexy dance with the bitches in small towns, I looked to Dirty Dancing for guidance.  When I wanted to haunt horny widows, I studied Ghost.

I am a walking tribute to The Swayze.  I rock dance moves everywhere I go, my tight-tapered jeans not hindering my skills.  When women talk to me, I look into their eyes with unadulterated interest—interest that says, “You’re really important and people care what you think, beautiful.”  When dudes talk to me, I listen intently with just enough hardcore conviction to remind them that I could head-butt the shit out of them at any point.

The Swayze has made me the man I am today.  I’ve decided not to name my firstborn, Alexander David Garcia.  His name will be The Swayze Garcia.  I wish I could do more, The Swayze.

I finally got the good news though.  The Swayze is apparently okay.  That is awesome.  I love The Swayze because I love freedom, and I think the only reason God is trying to kill him with cancer is because Heaven is basically mediocre without that dude.

The Swayze: Original Badass

- David C. Garcia, Relieved Swayze Superfan

I don’t know if it’s my subconscious’ way of dealing or not.  I found out one week ago that the job I’ve been working at for 7+ years is being put down in four months.  I have yet to feel any real emotion about it.  I’m completely ambivalent, maybe even a bit cheery about it.

So I took Rowdy out for a walk after work.

I had a mixture of emotions when I saw it: rage and complete terror.  I have no idea why.  It was the most average mediocre tree ever.  

It didn’t hover or act menacing.  It was just kind of there, being a flimsy 35, 40-foot tree that would possibly impress Charlie Brown.

Maybe.

In a timeless moment, I saw this tree split down the middle, forming two arm-like appendages and push itself out of the ground, no head to crown from the filthy whore womb of Mother Earth.  Just shoulders starting where the head would be—where the head should have been.  And as it sprouted from the ground, it screamed and made my tears squeeze out with panic.  And my tears burned my face.  And the burning made me angry.  And with that anger, I clenched my teeth until the weakened capillaries of my gums, still thinned from a decade of smoking burst and flooded my mouth with warm, iron blood.

And there were no roots.  Ever–there had probably never been roots.  Just two knobby, sinewy legs that had been immersed in the dirt for however many years it took that beast to form unnoticed.  And it walked toward me, each step a quick, snapping movement.

And the terror in me became so unbearable that I had no choice but to lunge at this tree.  It screamed as I tore into it.  My fingertips splitting, I used the bones in the tips of my digits to tear into the bark and exposed what looked like bovine flesh.  And I tore into it and pulled out the meat and I ate it.  And as it squealed in anger, I scramble even higher to the top of the trunk where the shoulders hung from.  With the rage of a million murderers, just awakened from a restful sleep I roared, and I bit into the nook where the shoulders split or met.  And I chewed and chewed.  And my mouth made acid.  I chewed the corrosive juices into the menace like a Gila monster.  And it dissolved the bark, and the leaves, and the stubborn branches that scratched at my face in a last ditch effort to save it.

When I was done, the tree was a pile of mulch inside of a cage.

Then time started again.

So I kept walking the dog.

- David C. Garcia

As you all know, Meggie and I have a kid on the way.  It’s kind of a big deal.  His name is Alexander David Garcia.  You best recognize.

Today, I was talking with Jess Glass who, like Meggie, will also be crotch-barfing a kid out soon.   She has yet to pick out a name for her still-gestating goober, and we got to talking about what kinds of names would be best for her little guy.  As with any discourse I am involved in, the conversation quickly devolved from a legitimate subject into something no classier than fart and dick jokes:

Names that suck. 

Using my giant mongoloid fingers, I bashed the URL for Behind the Name into the Interwebz-searchy-bar-thingamabob, and in a flash, I was whisked away to a wonderland of names, many of which are suitable and noble.  I wasn’t interested in that sort of pomp, though.  I wanted to search for names that blow sack.

Jess rolled her eyes and either chuckled or called me a “pig-headed douche bag.”  I’m not sure.  When women speak it just sounds like nails on a chalkboard.  I told her to shut her dumb woman face.

Like I said, there are noble names.  There are names that command respect.  There are names that say, “I’m Adolf, and I’m a born leader” or “I’m Saddam, you can trust me” or “I’m Gerardo, give me a blowjob.”

Then there are names like Ethan.  Seriously?  Ethan?  What parent in their right mind thinks, “I love my kid and want him to have a wonderful life.  I want him to be respected by his fellow man, and I want the ladies to throw themselves at him.  I think I will name him Ethan.”  Fuck that.  Your little Ethan, cute as he may be is going to grow up to be a sniveling shithead, and everyone is going to hate him.  Wanna know why?  Well….um…I don’t know.  He just will be.  Ethan is an assnose name.

And with that, I give you the list of other names that suck real bad.  And in case you are wondering, “Broseph” is not a name, but if it was, it would be a doucheface name.

Glenn: The name just sucks.  If you want your kid to be pasty, crusty-nosed and asthmatic, name him Glenn.  I’m not sure what the etymology of the name is because I was too lazy to read it, but I’m sure it’s Gaelic for “Half drowned.”

Gaylord: DO NOT name your kid Gaylord.  Don’t.  It sucks, but homophobia still has its thick, nasty, rednecky claws embedded in our culture.  Name your kid Gaylord, and he is going to be ridiculed more than Vanilla Ice with MS.  Except, little Gaylord’s not going to try and kill himself.  He’s going to try and kill you.  And when he’s done playing in your blood and chewing on your innards, he is going to go on a tri-state rampage.  Gaylord: The most dangerous name in the world.

Cookie/Candi/Stormy: All of these names have an Old English etymological root: prostitute. In 18 years later, she’ll be lubricating the stripper pole with her tears and some crusty biker’s dick with her mouth.  Don’t give your precious daughter a whore name.

And speaking of precious:

Precious: Don’t name your kid Precious.  Or Princess.  These names are actually for annoying lap dogs, not your imbecilic kid.

Lars: I have always loathed this name.  Always.  The minute I was able to hate, I hated this name.  It has nothing to do with that fuckmouth Lars Ulrich.  Though, I’m sure he would have been a lot cooler if his name was something more acceptable like Steve Ulrich or Jake Ulrich.

Double names like John Paul or Juan Diego: You greedy shits.  Pick ONE name.  Or at least pick a more suitable greedy double name like Absolom Eliezer.  Yeah, I just went there, you humorless shits.

Chance: You know that one kid you went to high school with who was a complete asshole but somehow gained an unnatural popularity?  You know how you hated him and wanted him to get hit by a car?  You know how that happened and you were totally happy and celebrated with a delicious burrito from Chipotle?  You know how you never knew his name?  His name was Chance.

Olga: My great grandmother’s name was Olga.  I am pretty sure my mom considered naming me Olga if I had been born a girl.  Maybe she considered it regardless.  This in itself tells me my mother may have hated me a bit.  Olga seems like the medical term used to describe the fibroids on the Tree Man.  Don’t name your kid Olga.

Apple or any other ridiculous non-name name:  Just don’t.  Gwyneth Paltrow and her toolbag Coldplay husband are not cool, but at least they’re famous.  Name your kid Apple, and I’m calling the Department of Family and Children’s Services and telling them a legitimate retard is raising a kid.

So, there are some names you should not give your kid.  I hope that helped.

As a closing note, though, I’d like to recommend that the following name be brought back with unparalelled gusto: Ebenezer.  How fucking cool would it be to have a kid with that name?  “Hi, I’m David.  This is my wife, Meggie.  And here is our little badass kid, Ebenezer.  Don’t fuck with him.”

- David C. Garcia, Name Expert

This is one of the coolest videos I have seen in a long time.  Awesome.

David C. Garcia, Super Mario fan

“I am so sick of listening to you feeble-minded women.  You don’t know anything, and your opinion is irrelevant.  Especially when it comes to neck beards.”

- David C. Garcia, Badass

*SLAP!*  “You’re such an ass, David!” 

- Meggie Garcia, Wife to a badass

It’s not like I’m being sexist when I say that.  In my entire life, I have only reminded women of their intellectual inferiority like nine or ten thousand times.  No biggie.  Get off my nuts, mamacitas.  You’re pretty much my equal.  I guess.

Seriously, though.  Women’s place is in the kitchen making me nachos and not standing in front of me screaming about how “disgusting” and “funky-smelling” my neck beard is and that I “promised to help around the house.”  Outta my way, lady.  This TV’s not going to watch itself. 

That funky smell, by the way, is the scent of badassery.

That’s right.  Neck beards are for badasses, and women will never understand this because in the history of the XX chromosome, there have only been a groping handful of women who truly exemplify what a badass is.  Starbuck from BSG is the only one who comes to mind. 

Whatever.  Stay focused, ladies, because I am about to drop thick furry science on you.

While little is known about where the badass (Badassimus face-smashicus) gets his power, there is much speculation that it comes from facial hair follicles.  Recent scientific research has revealed that when a badass’ face grows fur, the stimulation of the hair follicles produces “badassamine.”  Badassamine is the chemical that gives us badasses our potency, wit and irresistibility.

This is not to say that facial hair is a requisite for the production of badassamine.  Look at Steve Perry.  That passionate angel of a man has never grown a single whisker and still has the ability to get the ladies mad soggy by hitting that high triumphant note.

For some of us, though, facial hair is an excellent way to ensure that our “bods” (badass word) are packed with enough badassamine to get us through our laborious day of burrito-eating and listening to women talk about their feelings.  I can’t imagine going through the day sans the badassamine like that sniveling pussy Michael Phelps. 

So what do I do?  I grow facial hair.

But I also grow neck hair.

I grow a beard so that I have the badass charm and potency of Billy Mays.  But as my own personal insurance policy, I extend my beard to the far recesses of my lower neck and upper chest.

Listen, ladies.  I know you pretend to be grossed out by the neck beard.  I also know that in reality, you want to lick my furry neck scarf like a lollipop.  This one time, when my neck beard was in full effect, I grabbed Meggie and mega French kissed her.  She loved it so much she ran to the bathroom and vomited.  Yeah, it turned her on that much.

Would I have that raw animal magnetism without the neck beard?  Probably not.

This weekend, I shaved my neck beard.  It felt like I had been castrated.

Never again.

- David C. Garcia, Neck Beard Sporter

I have a personal fantasy.  It involves my zombie mascot (name pending) hanging out with a sick pig and an Ethiopian.  Rev. Brandon J. Carr made that shit come true like an Arab genie.  Thanks, homeslice:

- David C. Garcia, happier than a retard