Dear Gravekeeper
I'm a big proponent of the Raw Food diet. I highly suggest you let it fester for another three weeks, to maturate the extra protein, and then dig in. Well, after you pull out the needles. Don't be stupid. That's just unsafe!
Cremator
Dear Necrofornicator
Whatever you have to call yourself to feel good about what you play, sure, whatever. I like some of your so-called "nardcore" bands, such as Annihilation Time and Dr. Know. But how does "nardcore" suburbanite punk rock compare to true, real, cannibal splatterthrash! It DOESN'T! FUCK YOU ALL!
Love Cremator
Dear Kathy
Neither one uses a Line 6. That may have been from us hijacking some other show and stealing the opening band's equipment, as we're not apt to travel with much while having to crawl through sewers and catacombs to our ultimate destinations.
When we have our own stuff back in our home under the cemetery, Digestor rocks on a Jackson Stealth or a Gibson V through either a Peavey 5150 or an Ampeg VH140. Dissector rocks on a Jackson Warrior through a Marshall 2000 (when it's not broken)
Cremator
Dear CT
Have you seen the news lately? Mexico is scary as shit! I'd rather fight a gigantic robot, a cult of christians, a bounty hunter, and a bunch of black metal bands any day over heading to TJ or Juarez. I value my mutant cannibal life too much.
Cremator
Dear lloyd
Lleave me allone about the llate shirt. I have llittle to do with the maill order for Ghoull. You'llll need to write a lletter with a llist of llaments to Digestor.
Llooking over your sellf-prognosis, I think you might be right. The cllot is onlly going to get worse, though, so realllly, you shoulld killll yoursellf.
Cremator
Cher Königstiger,
J'ai reçu votre missive trop tard. Noël est fini.
C'est dommage, car notre fête ne manquait certainement de nouvelles
cadavres. Mon assiette était remplie uniquement avec une vieille femme qui avait
mort depuis cinquante ans.
Je ne peux pas vous offrir un emploi comme garde, parce que nous avons mangé le dernier trois. Cela semble correct, mais le syndicat garde Creepsylvanian
a tendance à froncer le sourcil sur ce genre de relation de subordination.
Je n'ai pas besoin de tuer votre petite amie. Elle doit être morte
déjà à l'intérieur si elle vous datation.
Cremator
Dear your future wife,
Ghoul will never play in Canada. It's nothing personal, but Dissector is allergic to beavers, and as we all know, beavers outnumber people at shows in Canada.
As for my own physical attributes, I can assure you mon ami, that my tongue is stronger than others in order to compensate for the loss of my lower jaw. Yes... a very strong tongue. That said, I'm a loner, YFW, a REBEL. Well, a loner, except for the four dudes I hang out with in this sausage fest of a band.
FUCK OFF, YOKO!
Cremator
DEAR JTHEJOINT
WHY ARE YOU SO EXCITED? STOP YELLING! I CAN'T UNDERSTAND YOU!
CREMATOR!!!!!
Dear Canadian Domesticized Bee...
Don't remove the stains. Let them dry and it'll be like a natural butt flap to keep your rear warm while you spange.
I shove food down my food hole, just like an Irishman.
Cremator
Dear Cremator,
You Suck. Alex Webster Is Better. How Can I Be Better Than Alex Webster?
Sincerely, Yo Momma
(mfdanzig@hotmail.com)
Open letter to MFDanzig
Thanks for your letters. They were boring and sucked. A mere insult about my bass playing is really not interesting, nor is a singular call out for Ghoul to play your town.
You are representative of the stupid and boring posers that I slay every day. Please, don't waste my time to read your missives unless you have an actual question or something interesting to tell me.
Don't try to be witty, don't try your hand at clever jibes or insults. Trust me. You're not smart, or you would already be dealing with a ton of idiots writing to YOU.
Cremator
Dear Killchain
1. There is a chance. And that chance sucks.
2. Sometime after it is recorded.
3. I think it is a shame to witness bands' hypocrisy, they should remain true to themselves! If they can't stay true, I'm for the bands' slayer, for they should be dead! I get worried about bands at the gates after I make such statements, but I know I can take them on!
4. In a bar.
Cremator
Dear Dez
I believe the name of that band we were talking about was Tion and Barley, a new school folk duo from Creepsylvania. Well, formerly from Creepsylvania. Now currently residing, after digestion, in a lavatory on the A-11 leading out of Creepsylvania.
We'll never do a Sodom cover. It would desecrate the source material too much. HAIL SODOM!
First off, rename your band Minesweeper. Then you can hire the PC guy from the television commercials to join in on vocals. That's a high profile member, and you'll be able to immediately go out on tour and it'll say, "Minesweeper, featuring John Hodgeman the PC guy!" on every flyer. No one will actually by a record, but like Dogstar and Keeanu Reeves, you might be able to get a few of the hot ass left overs once John Hodgeman the PC guy is done fucking them.
Cremator
Dear Matt,
Every Sodom album is of equal value, and you should own them all. But in order to not puss out of your question, I'm gonna go with Agent Orange, because Ausgebombt is one of my favorite Sodom songs.
Cremator
Dear Matt
Bring me the head of Pete Coors on a stick, and we will play Colorado.
Cremator
Dear Dave,
1. It's a toss up between Pungent Stench, Autopsy, and Bolt Thrower. At least, select albums. You know what? Death metal sucks. Why can't you ask me about my favorite funk-thrash bands? MORDRED MUST REUNITE!
2. I'm pretty sure they use drug scales in their solos, snorting at least a gram of pulverized bones before each recording session.
3. I have some bits and pieces of long hair, wherever my skull was not completely burnt by the fire after I killed my blacksmith boss back in the slums of Paris. Sometimes I like to braid them and put a nice bow on the end.
4. Digestor does have only one eye, his right. We really need to fix that bag to cover his glass eye instead of his working one, and maybe he would stop sucking so bad at guitar.
5. Considering I'm blacked out during our sessions after a couple 40s of Rot Gut and Numbskull, I can't give you an answer. I can tell you that after Splatterthrash, my dick was completely covered in sores and scabs. According to Fermentor, I had said I wanted to bow my bass like a violin. This must've been especially hard, considering I had my bass under my chin. That could explain the stitches around the whole thing.
Steve Digiorgio sucks. Chris Reifert would not fight him, though, because they are friends. So I would jump in and break Steve's hands. Then I would steal his gear.
Cremator
Dear Gideon
Number one: I eat anyone who gets near when I'm whipping up a souffle or rue. Beware my French culinary skillz!
Number two: No.
Hoping you become a better listener,
Cremator
Dear Lizard Man
1) I only like the punks in the ancient language, that is someone who is a harlot, prostitute, or libidinous homosexual. I think this definition pretty much fits you. So I like you. Also, the Dead Kennedys and the Misfits.
2) I'm absolutely influenced by my love for harlots and prostitutes.
3) What is politics? I only know I must eat the flesh from human corpses, sk8 the graveyard, and finally finish this Howard Zinn book that Mr. Fang lent me.
4) One band comes to mind when considering what advice to give you - Infectious Grooves. Do as thou wilt.
Cremator
Dear pdxnumbskull
Why so afraid of 2012? Just because it's the end of the Mayan calendar? Hm, come to think of it, it's the end of the Ghoul calendar as well. I guess that means my plumed trouser snake is going to come out of hiding and KILL YOU ALL. I promise you this, yeeeeessss.
Sk8, mother fucker... fuck surfing... ride the waves of the pavement. It's much more brutal. When you land, you eat dirt, not drink water. Don't be a pussy. Also, rub your bass on your dick. Hit it with. NOW! It doesn't help, but it makes me laugh to see you hurt! FUCKER!
love Cremator
Dear Dudeguy
There is no better her way to make her forget than to kill her. After, you can bang to you heart's content and never have to hear a peep about Jesus, Mary, or Joseph even. Plus, you won't have to pull out and the world can be spared your defective seeding of an ignorant sheep.
I heartily recommend listening to some Tom Jones. It'll put her corpse in the mood.
Cremator
Dear kevin
I quit.
Cremator
Dear maxi pad...
Take Adirol. It's like the doping for college. Also, it's good to take when you need to get a lot of cleaning done in your crypt.
As for branding, I have no idea... Cremator does not do branding, he only burns! BURNS! So, essentially, do not come to me to get branded as I will burn you down until you bones are as black as pitch.
Cremator
Dear Skweegie
1. If you want us to play a private show, you will have to pay for plane tickets. That's about all we require... not to mention fake IDs, a coyote to guide us, and anything else a cannibal mutant from Creepsylvania needs to evade the law.
2. Dissector can't talk, seeing as how he is borne of witchy magick and maggot flesh, so I'll have to answer for him. 7 strings are fucking gay gay gay gay. Get rid of it now, or move to Massachusetts and find yourself a nice husband.
Cremator
Dear Silas
Your friends suck, apparently. You should pull off a jack-in-the-crack from their groin and finish with a snicker-doodle on their face. If that doesn't convince them you have the toughest sk8, then drive it home with a fist-dick in the ass. That last one is not a sk8 trick, it would basically involve you punching their ass repeatedly. This is also colloquially known as a turkey punch. DO IT!
I like thrash. Some new stuff is good, like bands you've mentioned, and some stuff sucks. Like any genre of music, 90% of it sucks. That is the way of life. 90% of life sucks. It's nice to find the corn in the poop, though, so keep looking through that toilet they call the record store.
I'd also recommend Engorged if you get a chance.
Cremator
Dear Iron Dave...
Your boss sounds like my kind of guy. Here's what you should do, if he bothers you... shut him down. Get some of that underage pussy, get charged with statutory rape, spend a few years in the clink with your new boyfriend who calls you Sally, and show him where his lecherous ways will lead him! Sure, you're going to end up with a size 10 poop chute, but that's the price to pay for your wholesomeness.
Or, find a new job. I'm sure that McDonald's will get along fine without you manning the register.
Cremator
Dear William
The answer is green.
Cremator
Dear Zho...
I'm doing terribly... I'm a hideous mutant freak missing half of my face! Thanks for the reminder, FUCKER!
1. I don't know. The Armani suit I stole from the corpse had all the tags ripped off.
2. Sodom
3. We're planning an entire tour of the Yukon on Greenland, but sorry, no Ontario. That'd be far too pleasant.
Sure eat some cake. Pizza is over-rated though... try a soufflŽ, with some chilled Bordeaux.
Cremator
Dear Svenny and Squiggy,
We've thought about playing Germany, but really, you've all become such peace-niks, your hippy dippy patchouli oil smell makes us sick. In the meantime, we've had to play exclusively in America, the current home of war and fascism, with the smell of tank oil and crowd-control weaponry in the air. I do hear some things about this Balrog Obama, though, bringing change and hope to the American peoples. I'm not sure how a Balrog, mightiest of all the old demons, can bring hope to the American people, but we hope to dash it nonetheless.
As for Digestor's home town, I think you bastards put on some giant rave there now, and though we like to think we're undefeatable, nothing crushes Ghoul's spirits more than techno beats and a bunch of sweaty people in neon-gear trying to touch us because they're on E. GAH!
Cremator
Dearest Lance-a-little,
None of us are in Impaled Nazarene, Impaled Northern Moon Forest, Impaler, and none of us even drives an Impala, so I have no clue what you're talking about. Ghoul is as Ghoul always has been, a bunch of mutant freaks from Creepsylvania bent on destroying your ear drums and turning a quick Euro so we can afford more white sneakers. Until we make that money, we'll just have to kill all these retro-thrash poseurs who actually think white sneakers is a good fashion choice.
Yes, I am concerned about fashion. I'm French, mon dieu!
Cremator
Dear Sergio
You're never too old to skate unless you have no legs.
As for old movies, I really enjoy the government stock films about how to torture. So funny! If you really want to be horrified, I also recommend the Pauly Shore box DVD set. Chilling to the bone!
Cremator
Dear Weenis Jose...
You look like a tool.
Are you riding in the back of the car because your pimp is dropping you off to suck some massive man meat in order to get a little money for some smack? Make sure he doesn't slap that pretty little face of yours with his rings on, again...
Cremator
Dear Gabe
Ask Away... If that bad ass French Canadian drummer can work in an accordion into Voivod, then it is officially bad ass. Also, Weird Al Yankovic is fucking awesome. Go for it.
Cremator
Dear Hail PDX,
GG Allin was a poser and a pussy. The answer is no, go fuck yourself.
Cremator
Dear Bassist not as good as cremator
You want to play good as the Cremator? Okay... first, try being conceived from the seed of 100 different whore fuckers in a womb filled with gonorrhea and ennui. Be born by slipping from your mother's beef curtains onto a rusty carpet tack while she cooks turnip stew in a shanty near Paris. Then, be sold to a blacksmith who beats you regularly until you blow up his shop and in the process lose your lower jaw. Wander around Europe with children deriding you and people throwing rocks at your head. Fall into a grave and then join Ghoul when the other two mutants try to grave rob you.
Or face it... you'll never be as good as me. Eat shit and die.
Cremator
Dear THE MAD BASSIST
I love Napalm Death, obviously making me much better than your brother. We came to Maryland, and I ass raped your brother with a flaming hot poker. That should straighten him out. If that doesn't work, try sucking his dick until he's tired of it. That'll make him listen to more manly music for sure.
Cremator
Dear prisoner to the inside
You have the perfect life... you can spend all day killing elves and watching Chocolate Rain video remixes. Plus, you spare society having to see your pimply pock marked face. Thanks!
Cremator
Dear Broken Strat
Try some awesome songs like Manaiaxe, Bury the Hatchet, Splatterthrash, Tomb After Tomb, Numbskull, Graveyard Mosh... etc.
Cremator
Dear Kissyourmotherpetyourdog...
My fellow Ghouls may disagree with me, but surely they are wrong and I am right, as I have the advice column. The most satisfying way to kill is with fire, be it with torch, molotov cocktail, or columbian necktie. Flamethrowers are cool, but they're kind of a cheat. So don't be a pussy... go kill someone with a hotfoot now.
Cremator
Jordan...
It is odd you should be able to write me an email, but apparently have never heard of the interwebs. It's an astounding system whereby one has a home computing system that sends digital data packets off into a netherworld of data storage systems which respond to your home computer's requests and demands with digital packets of information your computer can interpret to do things like buy old Ghoul CDs being auctioned off by another interwebs user, or find naked pictures of Hannah Montana. To sum it up, like Senator Ted Stevens of your Americunt explained it, it's like a series of tubes.
Right now, Tank Crimes Records, those insidious bastards, have re-released our first two records. One day we will quell this blatant exploitation of Ghoul and dominate you all from behind our blooded-hoods, but until then you can probably order this re-release from www.tankcrimes.com
Cremator
Dear DDDDD (obviously a reference to the upcoming fourth installment of the Ben Affleck smash hit, Daredevil)
Obviously, Scotch blood goes best with whiskey. So, if you come across a Mc-Anyone, feel free to kill them and drain their blood and drink away. It'll put hair on your chest and maybe improve your golf game. You may accidentally ingest Irish blood, and if you do, consult your doctor immediately for they are inhuman, poisonous beasts whose blood will cause your testicles to shrink.
Killing never tires me out, at least my own maniacal band of firebuggery. A torch up the ass is nothing but class. Fire does all the work. What's really tiring is endlessly moshing to Anthrax's Persistence of Time. Those synchopated beats make me dance funny. I prefer Spreading the Disease for a good ol' circle pit, and that keeps Ghoul going all night long!
Cremator
Dear PDX Ghoulunatic
You live in one of Ghoul's favorite regions for good bands. Engorged, Funerot, Reeker, Splatterhouse, Menacer, Skarp, Book of Black Earth, Middian, Tragedy, From Ashes Rise, Tormentor... and that's pretty much it. I don't think there's any other bands from that area that play anything like us... no other Disney-inspired surf rock bands, nope. There could be some lame shit heads that write songs about movies they watched, a highly original concept, or maybe even some bands that talk about how lame playing shows is and then turn around and start playing live shows. I don't listen to such bands. Neither should you.
Cremator
Dear Adeadrock
Great. Good for you. I will keep on slaughterring (sic), starting with you.
Cremator
Dear Jonny
What are you, Mayan? Eating the hearts of will not give you courage and strength of the previous owners, but it will provide you with a diet rich in B vitamins.
Eating the brains of teachers, however, is a really bad idea. There's a disease going around, Mad Cowllege Disease, and it's only spread by eating the brains of college professors. If you do this, you will die a horrible, painful, and long death. You'll find yourself drawn to a college campus, finding comfort only in dark, quiet places like a library, and you'll be compelled to write papers and do research. In about fifty, sixty years after this, you WILL DIE! Is that something you can risk? Just say no to eating teacher's brains... grind them with your sk8.
Cremator
Dear Nick,
![]()


The most chilling of all parasites... children. That couple looks devoured by pain and misery, if you ask me.
Cremator
Dear... who sent this?
Cremator is terribly confused... was this sent by the mother? Or the Inseminator? Was the mother Inseminated? Cremator feels compelled to write an to another advice column... please mail this to dear Abby for me:
Dear Abby,
I'm stuck answering insipid questions from a moronic audience. How do I get out of this gig without killing myself?
Crushed in Creepsylvania
Love,
Cremator
Dear Corey,
This is an advice column, so I'm going to advise you to look elsewhere for your answer. Up your butt and around the corner would be a good place to start.
Cremator
Dear Fatty fat fat fat,
I enjoy ladies' fingers, green eggs and hands, cop rinds, hair pie, and the occasional infant back rib. I think next time you go out you should order a stomach stapling, you fucking fat cow.
Much love,
Cremator
Dear Fred Durst,
First off, thank you for that amazing cameo in Zoolander. Your appearance as a celebrity with no shelf-life at all really doesn't date that film one bit.
As or sexual positions, Cremator has not had sex with a living woman in many years... like, ever. It's hard to find a date when you don't have a lower jaw or a bottom lip with which to make a kissy-face. I have laid down multiple times with many skeletonized corpses, however, and I'm pretty sure most of them were women. My favorite position is on top of the rib cage, where the cartilage sometimes lingers and provides a grumous lubrication of sorts, and with another skeleton rubbing my butthole with a femur on top of me.
I think we are heavily influenced by Nirvana, and that is to say we'd appreciate more hipster types blowing their heads off with shotguns and will play music to inspire this accordingly.
Cremator
Dear Bleeding in VT
Thank you for asking a genuine question. Cremator prefers a fiery torch to cauterize all wounds. Some say a metal poker is more sanitary, but it's hardly KVLT. I suggest a nice cedar torch. It has a delightful scent to it when it's searing freshly excoriated flesh.
You're from Vermont? Are you sure you don't have a bleeding heart? CREMATOR MAKE POLITICAL JOKE! HAHAHAHAHAH!!!
Cremator
Dear Dan
You're on one of those Superman Returns laptops? Excellent... that is much better than the computer I have, which is cobbled out of old bones and watch fobs I've procured from the Monte Noire Cemetery.
The rest of you letter is complete fucking nonsense. This is an advice column, and I'm going to advise you that no one cares about your tall tales. You're a petty little piece of shit with nothing better to do than write to an obscure band. Buy a tee shirt from us and shove off already.
I hate you
Cremator
Dear some bitch
I agree, you are a bitch. We are brutal.
I may suck at replying to questions, but at least I do. You write into a column called "ASK CREMATOR" and manage to complete an entire missive without actually asking me anything. Not one question. You suck at writing questions. Therefore I'm not replying to anything. I'm just informing you that I'm going to bend you over like the bitch you are and shove my giant mutated cock into your blown-out asshole and lay my hot, burning Cremator seed so deep you'll be tasting it for weeks.
Love
Cremator
Dear Mr. Nunyabusiness...
Unfortunately, we cannot engage in such a deal. First off, those cement shoes get right in Fermentor's way, as his favorite food is stinky corpse feet. Second of all, you mafiosos are really unpalatable to the rest of Ghoul, because your bodies all taste like lead and the bullet ridden flesh is bound to break what's left of our teeth. Plus, you all eat pasta fazul. Gross.
So, how about instead, we come to your houses late in the night and put horse heads in your beds, and when you wake up screaming, we'll shove broken beer bottles into your mouths and you can choke out garbled words like "mama mia!" and "fugeddaboutit" and "I'm a fucking stereotype" through blood and grue and vomit pouring forth right before you die.
Martin Scorcese sucks,
Cremator
Dear Bonerless in Chicago,
If you think you are anything more than stupid, than you are extra stupid.
Your mother is right. You cannot raise a maggot. You are raising a fly, first of all. The maggot is merely the larval stage of something that will eventually fly away from you and die in a day or two. Unless you have the powers of the Swamp Hag along with the incredibly toxic runoff from tar farms in your sewer, you're shit out of luck.
Instead of worrying so much about having maggot pet, maybe you should check on that gerbil you shoved up your ass a few months ago.
Cremator
P.S. We didn't go to Chicago. There were no shows in California. We were supposed to be flown out, and the cost from Creepsylvania ended up being prohibitive to the promoter. End of story.
First of all, P.S. stands for "post script" meaning that anything labeled "P.S." is supposed to follow your signature. It's like starting a letter off before the traditional greeting.
Dear Guilherme,
You've obviously found our site, and I'm told that someone has put up something called a "store" whereupon goods can be purchased for a transfer of funds by electronic means. These world wide interwebs really are something else, huh?
I'm not sure if we'll ever make it to Brazil, but I'm told that not only are there monkeys like you there, but also there are she-males. There are also lots of she-males in France, but they are usually just called "French men." That is why I had to leave that country and head to Creepsylvania, where the men are men and the ladies are practically men, too, what with all the hair protruding from their moles.
I don't have MSN. Cremator has no sexual diseases, just the normal ones, like gout, rickets, scarlet fever, typhoid, and consumption.
P.S. This post script should have been after my farewell.
Yours, Cremator
Hey loser
Impaled are a bunch of sycophantic losers trying to steal from Ghoul's sound and ride our coattails into stardom. You'd have to be stupid to not know THAT. Sean McGrath writes us a letter a day, telling us things like what he had for breakfast, how much he listens to Ghoul, how he wants to emigrate to Creepsylvania, and ack! All the advice he asks us, like what strings to use, what to say to his wife when he's home late, what he should do about that big bully who gives him swirlies... it's rather pathetic.
Digestor is rather sick of this McGrath character constantly trying to emulate him, right down to the exact same physical specifications.
I'm not sure what you mean about how we come out not wearing our "stuff" to tune our instruments. I don't even know how to tune an instrument, and that's nothing to say of how I don't even know how to play it. We have a crew we kidnapped from the Creepsylvanian Department of Public Works. They set up all our equipment for us, as they have good experience with engineering all the tar cultivating machinery in Creepsylvanian farms. You'll recognize them from their blue jumpsuits. They do this, because we are usually busy having our group prayer right before we hit the stage.
Cremator
Dear Unsatisfied
I know it is hard to live without Ghoul... we have that certain jenais se pas... no, jena sai qua non... shit, my French has gotten really bad.
Maybe you should count your lucky stars you got to see Ghoul play live and you didn't end up dead. Or even worse, the walking dead. You fucking Numbskull.
Cremator
Dear Anonymous,
You should shut your fucking mouth before I rip it off your face. No excuses.
Cremator
Dear Jonny
You have chosen wisely, grasshopper. Ghoul are the happiest people on the planet, living like cockroaches under the sodden earth, our faces mutilated and our thirst for blood never quenched. I don't think I could be any happier. When Cremator was a small boy in Paris, I long understood the "Secret" as popularized by the self-help book promoted on the Oprah show. I sent out my vibrations to the universe and really actualized my dreams through pro-active thought processes. After all, who wouldn't want to be a sk8ting cannibal in the poorest of all European hamlets? Creepsylvania is where it's at. You should come down here and party with us. Really. Join us. It's so lonely here...
Cremator
Dear Pleasent,
I'm glad you had a good time at the show. Did you see the limo I left in? Did you notice the scores of bling I wore? Did you happen to hear the bags of gold being dropped off outside of my dressing room?
So, what exactly inspired you to think that I'm the one to tell you about business? I'm not sure there is a gore industry, so much as their is a bunch of poor people being exploited by the booking and label industry. I would look into these avenues if you're looking to make money.
I play a bass I made out of an ox skeleton and it is amplified by a small child I kick when I have bass breaks.
Cremator
Gloria,
You're a whore. I'm emailing you my home number.
Cremator
Dear fukedincali,
You may not be ugly, but apparently, you are clueless. If you've been stuck outside her house in your car watching her every move, reading her mail, and sifting through her garbage, you should know by now whether or not she has a boyfriend. If you have not been doing these things, then you do not really love her. I highly suggest you find someone who inspires you enough that you scare her with your presence twenty-four hours a day. This is the Cremator way to love, the way of gay Paris.
That is not to say I'm gay, it just means Paris is. And by gay, I mean Paris shoves it's Eiffel Tower into Rome's Coliseum. You don't even want to know where Italy sticks its boot.
Cremator
Dear F.
I don't know this person named Dave Mustane.
In completely unrelated news, the new Megadeth, that band fronted by Dave Mustaine, is crap.
Cremator
Dear Jared
I don't nothin' about no education. Cremator was put to work in a forge at the tender age of two. Before I could even speak, I was handling wrought iron, red hot, with my bare hands. I was only allowed a diaper on my breaks, which I got at least once a week. As you can see, the working experience was great for me and I've turned out to be quite a success, feeding myself with corpse flesh and selling baubles I've stolen from these corpses so I can have some money to buy Piledriver vinyl.
By no means am I saying you shouldn't get educated. I think there is plenty to learn in home ec, like how to cook a corpse. An economy course could help you in pricing baubles that you pilfer from corpses. If you take a course in science, it will help you understand why Piledriver is the absolute best band ever with a spiky head. Other than that, school is useless.
Cremator
Dear Vomitbelch
You sound like you are having a smart ass, but your ass is not so smart. I know, because I will be kicking it.
Yes, there is some resemblance between our hoods and that of Mr. Voorhees. There is more of a resemblance between our hoods and the Tobacco Man from Redneck Zombies. Some passing similarities could be found between Ghoul and the Unknown Comic. Have you ever seen CB4 with Chris Rock and when they dress up as "the Bag Heads?" There is also resemblance between this Frito-Lay giveaway from the 1960s and our own appearance...
Dear Dan Miller, if that is your real name...
Did Seth's wheelchair appear? I find your joke about seizures and mild heart attacks and coma to be in very poor taste. In this case you should also add that the spirit of a young girl appeared to hit Seth in the face with a chair in revenge for all the chairs he has thrown in the face of other little girls. Maybe you didn't do the ritual properly.
I think the worst part is you wasted a Heartwork back patch. Sure, it's not the best Carcass album, but it's still pretty good. What I did was scratch half of my copy of it, so only the good songs will play. Actually, I don't have a copy of it, as I live in a cave underneath a cemetery and there's no stereo... Ghoul just hums all our old favorite albums. So, I actually did the scratching thing to all my friends' CDs. This is why Cremator no longer has friends. Take a lesson in my failure. Merde!
Cremator
Dear... uh... huh?
Stop writing me. It's getting creepy. I'm going to get a restraining order against you. Face it... I just don't play on your team, if you catch my drift.
Love (but not in that way),
Cremator
Dear _Nicole <3!!!
My, you sure are a 1337. I've already learned English on top of my French and Creepsylvanian (basically, English with a heavy accent), and now I have to learn this online garbage? Terrible. What is wrong with you Americans? It's no wonder the rest of the world thinks you all eat poop. Literally, that's what they think. I suppose having tasted American "cuisine" I would agree. I much prefer to eat your corpses. Now, to answer your questions...
1. I think Digestor runs the Ghoul MySpace page. We have to break into the Creepsylvanian Public Library in order to use the computers. The town elders, however, are talking about putting up a firewall against MySpace, so Digestor will be really sad when he has to stop flirting online with Emogirl21. The birds are DYING!
2. Send an SASE and find out. Then we'll have your ADDRESS.
3. No one has asked me for relationship advice. It's usually blithering nonsense like this.
You best check out our shows page to see what shows we are playing, you goof. That's what this fucking website is here for. We're not selling pilfered goods from graves to pay for this for no reason.
Cremator
Dear Getupandkill,
Stop being a pussy and save up some money to buy a drum set. You suck and obviously have no love for your craft if you're not ready to be poor and dejected by society. Your friend is right to protect his set from a leech such as yourself. I wouldn't let you drink the piss out of my toilet, frankly. So, man up and go buy a kit. Of course, Fermentor got his set by buying old scrap metal with the money he got from pawning off the jewelry he stole from corpses. After that, he stretched the skins himself from the same corpses. It's this kind of Old World ingenuity that you obviously lack. Buy a Tama set.
I think you can find more on Creepsylvania in your local Travel Office. Most brochures simply say "don't go." I disagree... I think the foetid swamps stinking of rotten eggs are reason enough to visit our lovely land. Come on by the catacombs and we can assure it will be a trip you'll never forget... or come home from.
Love,
Cremator
Dear Michael
First, learn to use spellcheck. I'm sure many girls have turned you down based on your incoherent English. I'm Creepsylvanian, and I can splel beteer then yuo.
Secondly, are you ugly? Have you considered this? In this case, you may be shooting to high. You might need to just try and go for an uglier girl. This is probably your problem at the job, too. You're ugly, so you don't get promoted. There is really only one suggestion I have for this situation. Put a hood on your head, start playing thrash metal, and kill people frequently. Hey! It worked for me, so who're are you to disagree? You're Michael, the girlfriendless, promotionless dick chump, that's who. Say it loud, say it proud, you're ugly and you're proud.
Ghoul will never play in Atlanta. We have something against whatever it is you're proud of there. This is truthful to say as we have something against everything. Fuck the world.
Love Cremator
Dear Corpse Shredder,
I would give you advice on how to write riffs as menacing as Ghoul, but then I would have to kill you. Actually, I plan on killing you anyway, so I'll go ahead and reveal our secret. It's a logorithm Digestor formulated on his Macintosh G5 utilizing Linux coding language that is compiled against population control records of the CIA following mass riots and disturbances perpetuated by electrical impulses and anhydronic contuberances which are left behind by radiolactative minurfactions from the solar fibulations emanating forth from the silconix nebulonic.
Love Cremator
Dear Cedric the Entertainer,
Modest Mouse, yes, good stuff. But not as good as Mickey Mouse and the Surfriders. That is my favoritage tunes ever. GO SURF! Here in Creepsylvania, surf music is banned by law. You see, surf music was really the first rebellious music there ever was. Why just look at the history! In it's pre-surf stage, instrumental rock musicians brought rock to a whole new level. Link Wray's "Rumble" in 1954 is the first ever use of distortion. Link Wray invented the distorted sound by popping holes in his speaker cone with a pencil. It was said that the song would inspire actual bar fights.
Later on in the sixties, surf music would really take hold as the voice of rebellious youth. These youth would no longer stick around hanging out in their mothers' basements, but they'd go outside to the beach, drink, and listen to the music embodied that zeitgeist. Surf rock would be the battery that empowered the youth that would lead protests in college against the Vietnam war. Surf rock would empower the youth of communist nations to start rebelling, and indeed the Berlin Wall was constructed to fight that powerful music. Even the Russians wished they all could be California girls.
Is it any kind of wonder how surf music could have led to heavy metal? What with the tremolo picking and the unheard of fast paced drum style, metal owes surf music a debt of gratitude for paving the way for it to exist. It was not unknown for Ozzy Osbourne to take to the waves off the coast of England around 1970. Okay, it was unknown, but he really did attend the Folsom St. Gay Fair in San Francisco that year. Draw your own conclusions.
Cremator
Dear Myself,
Seriously, as an internationally known menace, as a legendary bassist, and as a horrifying freak uglier than even Britney Spears with her wonky fetal-acohol syndrome eyes, this is the kind of meandering, pointless shit you have to put up with? Really, me, you should require physical addresses from these nincompoops so we could go out and burn down their homes with them and their family inside. Their screams would be sweet, sweet music by which to drink wine and dine on a baguette with some brie cheese. The screams would only be slightly less loud as your own every time you have to read the inane blabberings of another flesh sack waste of life such as this.
I'm so sorry, me, that we were ever born. If life doesn't come to much more than this soon, the suffering of others will not be adequate recompense for our own suffering. I promise, my sweet, that I'll swing you where the little birdies sing... but only after we've killed everyone else on this page.
Love Cremator
Dear Oxidised Razor Masticator,
Creepsylvania is a wonderful place... for us. Well, not so much since the Christo-Fascists took control, but before that it was a wonderland for the ghouls! There was plenty of gamy peasants dying all the time providing us with a veritable cornucopia of turnip fed corpses on which to feast. Here in the Monte Noire Cemetary, the flesh is always cold and laden with protein filled maggots. In the Volkor Mountains, there was a giant castle which had a majestic view of the tar fields. Alas, we kind of sort of accidentally blew it up. Svatoplunk Square used to be a wonderful place to go shopping. There was the charcoal store, and the grey paint store, and the thatched roof store, and if you were feeling really spunky, you could get some great nick-nacks at the Curio Shoppe. Unfortunately, they were usually the nick-nacks we'd plundered from another dead Creepsylvanian. That's all changed though, since they put in a Disney Store. Bah. They also have a DVD store with the worst horror films you can imagine, all bootlegged by a porcine misanthrope with a flourescent complexion. It would be enough to make me vomit out my mouth, if I had anything resembling a lower jaw left.
Ghoul has never been "signed" to any label. We would never be so foolish as to sign any legal papers! Besides that, we don't know how to write. I'm actually forcing a small child to type this before I kill him... help me! PLEASE MR. AMERICAN I am Kvatovar Blashenko, and I'm being held hostage to dictate for this evil man with a voice like the cookie monster, but he is not so nice oh he knows I'm typing something else! ACHHHH THAT'S MY SKULLCAP!!! B LARHAALJAKLSHN SLKJD HALSKJA HALKSJD
Love Cremator
Dear Wesley Wasted,
The Ghoul Hunter is a total square n00b, if you didn't get that by his nasaly and most irritating voice. His voice makes me cringe. I hate it. I want to punch the face of that voice repeatedly and then shove hot iron pokers down it's throat like some kind of mutilating cock for him to fellate.
As for your zombie problem, I think he is trying to make friends. Yessss... friends. Walk up to him and give him a big hug. Make sure to lay your head upon his chest ever so nicely and see what happens. I'm sure he'll just adore your friendship and you can both go and play together at the park.
Hoping you end up undead,
Cremator
Dear John,
Dear John. Dear John. By the time you read these lines I'll be gone. Life goes on, right or wrong. Now the sun is dead and gone. Dear John. Since we've sung love's last song. Dear John.
It's a big bummer you're a rug. It's going to make it very hard to break someone's nose. Tell your mother Cremator will burn her vagina off if you do not get to go see D.R.I. Afterwards, we can all hang out and drink and then I will kill D.R.I. wrap them up in you and dump you all in a river.
loving hugs and kisses
Cremator
Dear Owen In Your Love Hutch,
William Shatner is not dead, however, he did kill his estranged wife by drowning her, and then attempted to write a comedy about it. Like those brilliant thespians, Robert Blake and O.J. Simpson, however, he got away with it. I think this relates to your dream in that you see the witches with shotguns as potential mates who are trying to force you into a shotgun wedding. Instead, you mutilate them, freeing yourself of the bonds of matrimony. In the end, this means you are gay. Go with it, and be free to prance among tulips while wearing designer clothing.
We will never tour with those shitty, poserish bands. Those bands are fake. Ghoul is real! We are happier to stay here, stuck in our catacombs, watching horror movies, imbibing medicinal tonics, and talking shit on the Internet rather than going outside and seeing the sun. Leave Ghoul be. That is all.
Cremator
Dear Glamulator,
Seriously... mom, last time. Stop writing me here.
Cremator
Dear TGPAHOUAKJD, if that is your real name...
Ghoul would love to come to Chicago. We hear the deep-dish pizza is great. We also love that you call yourself the "Windy" City. Ha ha ha ha!! If only you knew what that meant in the Creepsylvanian vernacular! You might shove ice pick in your eyeballs and sit on a running chainsaw for the mere shame of it. Fools!
Here's my advice to you. Sell everything you own. Collect the money into an envelope and send it to Ghoul. And that's it. Well... go sit on the chainsaw afterwards. We'll have fun buying fourth copies of all our Anthrax and Megadeth records.
I kid, of course... be sure to go to Lollapalooza 56, where you'll find us on the second stage skullfucking Perry Farrel's decapitated head. Also make sure to come by our Henna booth where we'll be handing out free punches in the face!
Cremator
Dear Nick
Really, I understand that Ghoul is the greatest band in the world, and that it is scientifically provable that Cremator is the sexiest of the Ghouls, but this kind of obsessive behavior you exhibit with writing me constantly really needs to end. Please, do not make me have to get a restraining order. Not only will this complicate both our lives, but forcing me to go to the Creepsylvanian Court House will really piss me off. The lines there are atrocious! If it isn't Frau Skreutum complaining about that little Billy Spungbein masturbating to old issues of She-Hulk in her turnip patch or Herr Graubnut arguing about the tickets on his horse and buggy, it's always something time consuming and pointless. What was I talking about?
Oh yes... to address your first inane pondering, Oprah would win. Oprah would pull up Dr. Phil's underwear over his head, thereby cleaving his gigantic ass crack and making it even larger and bloodier, and then she would force Dr. Phil to drink his ass blood. Then she would reach into his chest, pull out his heart, and eat it in front of the man while he was still alive and absorb his strength while humiliating him. Do NOT fuck with Oprah.
As to your second query, by all means, give Ghoul your work for free. We could have paid you with Creepsylvanian sheckels, but all of those were taken by the Burgermeister to be smelted into a statue for the town square honoring St. Scheissmann, the patron saint of Creepsylvania and landfills.
Cremator
Dear Kasra
My first piece of advice is to get a new name. Your current nome de plume is suggestive of the sound I make when I accidentally swallow a ring with my lady fingers.
I've never heard of Gwar. Is this some kind of music group? Cremator doesn't know, because Cremator only listens to the single record in my collection, a slab of vinyl with the recorded sounds of cats being tortured and dying. I hate cats. Do you know why? Because I hate everything. If I could get a record of the sounds of you being tortured and dying, I think I would play this a lot, too.
As for the game of Uno to which you refer, it was actually an intervention. We had to explain to this person in a "scary" clown mask that clowns were not scary. They just aren't. They're not creepy, either, they're just fucking clowns. There was a lot of crying, hugging, and then we killed and ate him.
Cremator
Dear Josh
While Cremator finds it charming that you enjoy literature for children, he would remind you that words without pictures do exist. These things are called "books." Notice the absence of the word "comic." You should check out your local library sometime and try getting past the puerile abortion of intellect that is the "graphic novel." Of course, I'm frequently in the Creepsylvania Public Library as Ghoul has to break in here to use the computers so we can send threatening messages to those who would exploit Ghoul! Also, there's a fantastic section on gardening in here.
horticulturally yours,
Cremator
Dear b4k4 n00b
LOLLERCAUST!!!!!!!1 U tihnk Cr3m4tor w00d tlak 2 a n00b like u? Puhl34ze... I am a hx00r and 57th l3v3l scene wyzzzard.
My advice is to get outside of your house and discover the miracle of sunlight. Your pasty skin could probably use some color but be careful of your eyes that have grown giant and bulbous from staring too long at the screen while playing World of Warcraft. I suggest some big sunglasses like those your grandmother wears. You remember your grandmother? She's the one who endured great hardships through a world war, the depression, threat of nuclear annihilation, so that you could sit in front of a computer and forward your friends funny videos of people ghost riding the whip or putting Mentos in Diet Coke from YouTube. She's the one you'll see spinning INTO her grave.
Cr3m4tor
Dear Cremator,
I've always really enjoyed Ghoul, and what you stand for. But I have a suggestion for new matieral. I think you guys need more cowbell, insted of 40 minutes of you guys playing, i want to hear 40 minutes of you guy playing with a cowbell behind all of it. Now, on to my next inquiry. Cremator, you madman, you have given me syphilis. And I'm very angry at you. I wish you death, and more sexually transmitted diseases. But until that day (hopefully after you put out like 37 more albums.) I will forever remember you as my hooded god. Not that I'm a homosexual or anything.
Love,
Digestor (aka. Jake is lost in Florida aka The New Floodville)
Dear not-Digestor,
Wow, that was an oh so clever nod to that underground and really KVLT show Saturday Night Live! My friend, your finger is so on the pulse of the undergound, I'm surprised you didn't also make a clever nod to American Idol or Lost, two shows I'm sure only you and three other people have ever heard of. As for your syphilis, I take no blame in this. Like Morrissey, I take no pleasure in sexual activity and see it as a distraction from the important things in life. Unlike Morrissey, I see the important things in life as burning things, eating corpses, and grinding a half-pipe while swilling rot gut. My advice to you is to stop pimping yourself out on the streets to people wearing hoods. In your neck of the woods, there could be anyone under that hood from David Duke to Jeb Bush. Not good.
Cremator
Dear Michael,
Before I answer your question, I have a couple questions for you:
Are you jacking off to my letter, right now?
Are you smoking crack or shooting up, because it seems like it when you're asking dumb questions all the time?
Are you thinking dirty things?
Are you jacking off to my letter, right now?
Are you smoking crack or shooting up, because it seems like it when you're asking dumb questions all the time?
Are you thinking dirty things?
Are you jacking off to my letter, right now?
Are you smoking crack or shooting up, because it seems like it when you're asking dumb questions all the time?
Are you thinking dirty things?
Love Cremator
Dear Virus
Shall I cater all my musical tastes just to appease you? Is this what will make you happy, you purple monkey-butted slime gargler? Alright, Cremator only listens to the heaviest of all grind, bands so underground, you've never heard of them. I went with Trivium to a Japanese shirt shop and paid $100 each for the KVLTest of shirts, right before I killed Trivium (or tried to... they only got away because their hair gel was so slippery). I listen to Rapist from Chile and the one from Texas. I love Grotesqueing Formulaic Gagglesplitter from Austria. I really love Withered From the Trees Ashes Her Skull Lays Dying from Chicago. The best band out of Florida is easly Br00talica, and I really enjoy Zwrqwennnweetlkm from Norway. Now that I have proven I am KVLT enough, stop being a waste of life and go buy a Ghoul shirt.
Love Cremator
Dear Nick
Congratulations on getting a super cool and hip myspace page. Now get off your ass and make a website, you nard gargling buttocks sniffer. You're welcome for the free press in MY advice column. Everyone write to sick_nick_guy and tell him how cool you think he is.
Love Cremator
Dear Bored in Upstate New York,
Gorgasm isn't cool.
Cremator
Dear Matt,
As a Ghoul fan you are going to have to get used to girls leaving you, ignoring you, spraying you with mace, etc. The fact that you had a girlfriend is a miracle, and you should thank whatever God you believe in that you at least have that memory to hold onto. In fact, seeing as how you've sunk so low as to actually write in to an advice column, you might as well put your genitals in a box, bury them somewhere, and forget about them. The only solace you can take is that when the "Grunge" revival happens in a few years, your trendy ex-girlfriend and her new poser buddy will be at the forefront, playing hacky sack and listening to Seven Mary Three on their flannel-print iPods. My advice is to let them live in their misery.
Cremator
Dear GSOTMINC (that sucks)
You used a skateboard as an axe? That's just ridiculous. It should be used as a bludgeon, not an axe.
First off, get that body away from the reruns of "Friends" as you will find this is largely where the stench is coming from. After that I suggest you get some KY Jelly and liberally lube the decrepit vagina of your dead mother. Now, have sex with the corpse.
You see, now you no longer have to get rid of the body, or have girls over. Again, Cremator is GENIUS!!!
Cremator
Dear Mom,
I told you to stop writing me here! GAAAWH!
Cremator
Dear OOO,
You claim to know much about Cremator, despite never having seen me without my dreaded hood on. In fact, the last person to see me without my hood on was my wet nurse. That was two weeks ago, and I've killed her since.
One thing you are right about however is my incredible skill with cunnilingus. This is not hard to surmise, however, as I am a bassist. Like Gene Simmons, all bassists are blessed with long tongues. It's how we know we are destined to be bassists. It is a little known fact that Paul McArtney played all of Ringo's drum fills using his tongue. He played Ringo's nose like a cowbell.
In fact, bassists are blessed with tremendous skill in all areas of pleasuring the more delicate gender. You see, long tongues are not the only long appendage with which we are blessed.
If you would like to impress the ladies like Cremator, hide a hot dog in your mouth before going down and... you get the idea. Also, some Drakkar would be nice.
Cremator
Dear SIP,
You found my woobie!
Give me back my woobie, you heartless bastard. I have not been able to sleep properly without it. Oh, the hairy little thing, growing out of heads, being ever so stinky as I cuddle up next to it right before I take a little Cremator slumber... my woobie comes with me in my dreams and protects me from Officer Yanish Dobrunkum and that vile Ghoul Hunter.
I will find you in Portland, steal back my woobie and all your PBR. Then I will go to Union Jacks and dance with all the naked ladies. My woobie and I are unconquerable!
Cremator
Dear Mrs. Teenyarms,
What are you going to do, punch me?
I took your article and wiped my butt with it. Something I'm sure you wish you could do for yourself.
My advice to you is to get a new dog... one that can hold a gun to your head, since this is an impossibility for a freak such as yourself. I would never want to live without fully functioning limbs, and I'm sure you feel the same. Do yourself a favor, why don't you?
Cremator
Dear Shit Onion,
I have a special formula for you. Follow it to the letter, and all your problems (and one of mine) will be solved.
Take your fish and sit in front of gas stove. Blow out the pilot light and then turn the stove on "high." The fumes from the main are what I like to call a "common element" twixt fish and man. Stick the fishbowl and your head inside the stove. Inhale deeply. Your fish will do the same. Soon, you will be talking with your fish and come to a very deep and meaningful understanding. Remember, keep inhaling the fumes until your fish tells you to stop. It might take awhile and you'll get sleepy. Don't worry, just go with it.
Cremator
Dear Emasculated by Your Betters,
This is one of those problems that is not easily fixable. I will need to face your confused girlfriend one-on-one. You must send her to Cremator. If you're on a budget, just use a hatchet and mail her in a box sealed with wax paper.
Creamator is not picky.
Cremator
Dear Jacko,
First off, your complete ignorance of metal history is something that offends me. Go ahead and try and do a cover of Ghoul's "Skull Beneath the Skin," and you will fail, for this song has never existed. This song is by Megadeth, you moonwalking cretin, and is loosely about the origin of their trademark character, Vic Rattlehead, who oddly enough, looks a lot like your picture.
I see nothing wrong with the way you look. Compared to the members of Ghoul, you are People Magazine's Sexiest "man" alive. You are obviously a strong, proud black man and I would blame children's racism for their fears. Such ebony hunks like yourself must face this problem a lot in America where systematic racism has kept people like you and Halle Berry poor and destitute.
In Creepsylvania, there are few black people. Instead, Ghoul is feared and spat upon, so I know your pain. Underneath this hood, I shed tears for all the prejudice we suffer as the "hooded menace." Well, I would shed tears, if my tear ducts had not been burned off with half of my face.
My suggestion is to whip out your gigantic 14" nubian schlong in front of these children and really show them who's boss. If that doesn't stop their crying, try burning off half their faces. It worked on me.
Cremator
Dear Brain Damaged in Arizona,
Are you sure you were not brain damaged before you got hit in the head? After all you are living in Arizona. It has been moi's experience that to move to Arizona, one must be brain damaged. If your parents forced you to move there, then you will be brain damaged soon enough.
Do you people realize you live in a desert? Who lives in a desert? It's too hot and you will soon die, while you drag yourself looking for water and a vulture circles your decaying body and then comically jump into what you think is an oasis, but really you are drinking sand. Sand. You people drink sand. Only brain damaged people drink sand. Well, in all fairness, also employees of Relapse Records.
You live a daily existence running from air-conditioned hovel, to air-conditioned car, to air-conditioned work, and get home in time to see the latest episode of Survivor where they are trapped in a desert while you drink carbonated sugar water and breathe in freon. You pig.
Even in our crypt under the Monte Noir Cemetary we are smarter than this... Digestor has hooked up a solar-powered air ventilation system and Fermentor has insulated the walls with old tires. I think they learned how on the Home and Garden channel.
I hate you people. I wish that bat would have killed you. My suggestion is to repeatedly bash your head into a ten-penny nail until you no longer plague my existence.
Cremator
Dear RAT,
Is he jealous of you, or disgusted? This is the real question. Sacres bleu, you are one dirty whore. Even in my homeland of France, where my grandfather, Pierre Cerveaudepoo, bent over and presented for the kraut armies, we did not put up with such abbhorent behavior as yours. I mean really, having sex with cyber-nerds? Even I am disgusted thinking of them sitting there, in their sour cream stained "I Grock Spock" shirt, one hand on their mouse, and the other hand on the device that moves a cursor around. I think you will find your husband is now what the French call "homosexuel" and what the British call "an average citizen." You have obviously made him disgusted with womankind. Felicitations, slut.
Cremator
Dear Terry
Let me start off by saying covering your nose with my merde is no way to get favors from Cremator. So you're an aspiring bass player? And your band says your equipment is not good enough? Sacre bleu! Have you considered YOU'RE not good enough? As an example, take this letter sent to moi shortly before yours...
Dear Cremator
My friends and I have just started a band called Maniaxe, in tribute to the best band in the world, Ghoul :) The problem is our bass player Terry. You see... well, he sucks. He's kind of deformed too, but not in a good way. He was a thalidomide baby, so he's got these teeny arms, and he plays his bass up really high. Frankly, it's creepy, and he sounds like garbage. We told him that his equipment sucks and we want to get rid of him because of it. We know he can't afford new equipment because... well, he can't get work with those flipper hands of his. Any advice as to how we can get rid of him and spare his feelings?
Jonathan (Portland, ME)
So you see, Terry, from the totally unrelated example, sometimes friends just want to spare other friends' feelings by telling them bold-faced lies. You should appreciate this. But... if you think you are good, then I suggest trashing their equipment until it is equally shitty as your sissy combo amp and piece-of-crap Fender bass.
Fuck off
Cremator
Dear Frustrated,
I have a better question. What's RIGHT with you?
Cremator
Dear Confused,
You are a homosexual. Find a nice guy from the wrestling team to shack up with. If your girlfriend is upset and needs advice, tell her I have an open door policy for 17 year old blond nymphomaniacs.
Cremator
Dear Choked-up,
Use a thicker pillow when you smother your husband and you won't be able to hear him complain at all.
Cremator
Dear Lonely in Luxembourg,
I've never heard of anyone using a spatula to do that, but you have my blessing!
Dear Squeamish in Scotland,
Not unless you're a Rabbi!
Dear Chuckling in Chelsea,
For the last time, I don't have Prince Albert in a can! Now stop writing me.