Welcome to another life-changing edition of… Last Rites Presents: Ask 2 Idiots!
In ancient times, the “village idiot” was a well-respected figure that played an important role in day-to-day life. If someone nailed a loose chicken to your door overnight in an effort to bring a plague upon your home and you wanted to discover which punk-ass villager was to blame, you requested the village idiot’s counsel. If your horse-drawn cart threw a rod and you had no way to peddle your shitty wares downtown, you buzzed everyone’s buddy, the village idiot. Suffice to say, without idiots in our past present and future, we’d probably be stuck limping around town in busted-down horse-drawn carriages with cursed chicken blood all over us until the Earth inevitably caves in on itself. So, yeah, kind of a big deal.
Thankfully, Last Rites is packed to the rafters with idiots, but the idiotest idiots on the crew—the preposterously elegant Captain (ME) and the violently dapper Manny (HIM)—have decided that it would be hugely irresponsible if were we to continue ignoring the continuous deficiencies of our fellow humans, so we’ve decided to gift the world with our golden consultation. You are all very welcome.
I recently lost all the money my wife and I managed to stow away by making several poor investments in the stock market. Ask 2 Idiots helped get us back on our feet by finding safe factory working environments for our young children. Double bonus, our kids no longer have to worry about America’s failing educational system! ~ A fan
The rules: there are no rules, you idiots! We’ll give life advice, opinions on virtually anything, homework answers, and terrifying and/or sexy predictions for the future. We also specialize in gambling, lucky numbers and astrology. The sky is pretty much the limit. Just don’t ask us to help with your spring cleaning, because we’re both far too busy bossing the birds and bees around and making suitable preparations for our scholarly visit to Baltimore next month.
Let’s get to it…
Our first question this month floats in via the notably degenerate “heavy metal drummer” circuit. Sidenote: Never, ever trust a drummer, ladies and gentlemen. Drummers are a cruel and petulant species, and their gear takes up too much room in your band’s disgusting 1990 Dodge Grand Caravan that smells like an orgy of old Funyuns and used underwear. Lev Weinstein is a 100% organic, locally sourced, artisanal drummer who beats skins for bands such as Krallice, Woe, Anicon, Bloody Panda, Fischel’s Beast and about a hundred others, possibly including The Wiggles. Mr. Weinstein’s query:
Lev: You know that story about how Patrice O’Neil discovered he was diabetic because his girlfriend told him his piss tasted like ice cream cake? Replace me with Patrice and his lady with your mom. Same scenario. Am I gonna die?
Captain: Are you talking about Patrice O’NEAL? Maybe you have someone named Patrice O’Neil in your He Man Pee Drinkers Club over there in FANCY NEW YORK. Something you have to be mindful of when you live in a big city for an extended period of time—the city becomes such an integral part of your life that you end up taking it as a lover, and that’s difficult for me to admit, because I despise the word “lover.” Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least to discover that anyone from New York City has introduced pee-play into the bedroom, because that’s basically the only thing New York City smells like: tinkle. I would also have to imagine that at least half of a New York City ER nurse’s time is spent removing models of the G Train from people’s keisters.
Secondly: why you gotta bring mamas into this?
Thirdly: yo mama’s so ugly, she gets fed six times a day by a zookeeper. Yo mama’s such a ho, she banged a snail when I used her to rake the garden. Yo mama’s so ugly, she uses a vacuum to wash her back. Yo mama’s so dumb, she laid on the roof when the doctor told her she has shingles. Yo mama’s so ugly, she got a used Kleenex in her family tree. Yo mama’s so old, she still gets scared when she sees fire.
Fourthly: it isn’t whether you’re going to die that’s important—it’s how you’re gonna die. I plan on doing so with absolutely nothing on but my boots, and in the arms of Jessica Biel.
Recommended listening: The Pharcyde – “Ya Mama”
Manny-O-War: Hey, Lev! That sure is an interesting question. I bet deep in the recesses of your mind, you’re asking me to taste your pee. Aside from me refusing to taste your pee, or engage in any water sports with you, I can assure you that you are in fact going to die. Now, a man of your body type is likely rife with blood-borne illness—gout and an excess of sugar disorders. While you might not have classic diabetes, you absolutely have a pre-cursor to diabetes. Every time you stuff your face with Ding Dongs and Devil Cakes, you’re chewing yourself one step closer to blood sugar levels that will require an incessant supply of insulin pumped into your veins, as well as immediate amputation of your legs. I guess we should caution you against this behavior since you make your living with those legs.
I did actually talk to my mom recently, and I happened to show her a picture of you. She said that not only has she never heard of you, but that you weren’t her type because she “wants a real man.” It’s cool, though. I’m gonna call up my gam-gam and see if she wants to gum you for a bit.
R.I.P. to Patrice Lumumba Malcolm O’Neal—one of the best, most underrated comics of our time.
Recommended Listening: Poison – “Mama’s Fallen Angel.”
Our second question comes to us from one of our planet’s leading movers & shakers, if “movers & shakers” happens to include people with extremely questionable taste in music who also hold a doctorate degree in hair farming. Enrique Sagarnaga lends his significant talents of “public relations” to the always cuddly Season Of Mist Records (plus one or two other possibly sketchy joints), and he joins Lev in the shameful act of heavy metal drumming for the bands Crypt Sermon and Ashencult. Dr. Sagarnaga asks the 2 Idiots:
Enrique: What is a vulva?
Captain: The Vulva, my dear friends, is sacred. It’s fairly reliable, built like a tank, and will continue to run smoothly long after it reaches 200k miles if properly maintained. Expect electrical issues, however, so keep extra fuses in the glove compartment. Please don’t ask me where the “glove compartment” is, because I am a gentleman. Also, if you see a “Baby On Board” sign hanging on a Vulva, please be respectful and give it a wide berth.
Speaking of Vulvas, I saw an old one the other day with a bumper sticker that read, “My Other Vulva Is A Honda CRV-EX.” It distracted me so much that I ended up rear-ending an Escort. Luckily, I just gave them whatever cash was in my wallet to avoid the cops. Life lesson: don’t tap an Escort from behind, it’ll cost you dearly.
P.S. Avoid nappy Vulvas at all costs, as they are a sign of a person who doesn’t respect themselves. And if the Vulva is nappy, never, ever, ever explore the trunk.
Recommended listening: Nocturnal Blood – “Goat Vulva Station Wagon”
Manny-O-War: Bro, this is like Sex & Boning 101. You gotta be able to fine that slit to make it stick. An old tale that I read in a bible or some shit involves that Paul Bunyan guy. He was all walking around with this huge ax dragging behind him, making the Grand Canyon, and he realized Babe the Blue Ox wasn’t walking with him anymore. This made Paul super, super mad. So, he was all swinging his ax around like a maniac and shit when his wife snuck up on him. He accidentally wedged that ax right in her crotch and made what is known today as an “ax wound,” and the outside became a Vulva as it healed. Paul was like, “bro, what the fuck and stuff,” right? His mind was blown. So then, Jesus and God came down from Heaven and were like “Paul, what in the fuck, dude,” and that Noah guy was similarly pissed because he had his eye on Paul’s wife since, like, waaaaaaaay back, and now he assumed she was ruined. Paul was super apologetic and felt, like, super guilty, so he took his wife home and tried to dress the accidental wound. But he was like, “Babe, this looks a lot like a flower, or one of those Georgia O’Keefe paintings you like.” He got a mirror and showed his wife and she was like, “Thanks, Paul! You’re the best.” So they went back to God & Jesus and were like, “Guys, this ax wound is top notch for fuckin’,” and Jesus & God were pretty high on Mescaline, so they were groovy to the wild new ideas that Paul had. They checked it out and were all, “broooooooooooo, this thing is tiiiiiiiight.”
So that’s what a vulva is and where it came from. You might want to work on finding the clitoris next.
Recommended Listening: Prostitute Disfigurement – “Cum Covered Stabwounds”
Dorothy Zbornak: Honey, if you don’t know what a vulva is, I’m guessing your girlfriend’s Amazon wishlist features more dongs than a Dream Theater concert.
Recommended listening: Steve Earle & The Dukes – “I Ain’t Ever Satisfied”
Our final question this month comes to us from a terribly handsome individual named Stuart “Where’s The Beef” Wellington. You may not know his name as well as you know someone such as, say, “Val Kilmer,” but both individuals play a vital role in making sure that the people of Earth are highly entertained. Stuart just so happens to be a little more off the deep end, and he’s probably a shittier painter. Anyway, Mr. Wellington—or LORD Wellington, as he’s known in these parts—just so happens to be one of the hosts of the wildly popular The Flop House Podcast, which the New York Times (yes, that New York Times) recently called “A great listen for movie fans…” Really, NYT? You couldn’t be a little more creative with your snappy analysis? smdh. SHAKE MY DAMN HEAD REALREAL HARD. At any rate, Lord Wellington threw down our last question for this episode, and it was a real GD doozie:
Stuart: Help! I’m hosting a dinner party tonight and my boss will be there. Unfortunately, I managed to burn the lasagna real bad. It’s ruined. The guests will arrive in twenty minutes and I have no entree to offer them. I was hoping to ask for a promotion, but now that’s looking unlikely. How do I salvage this wreck of a night?
Captain: First and foremost, how embarrassing for you that you aren’t successful enough to have someone do the cooking for you when you’re busy trying to be a blossoming socialite. Do you also wash your own hair?
Look, I’m gonna help you out. One, because I’m a great guy, and two, because I sometimes cook for people who are successful enough to have people do things for them. I bet you wish you would’ve known that before you decided to make literally the worst lasagna in the history of the universe, huh, Garfield?
Admittedly, I’m not a professionally trained chef, and I probably couldn’t tell a pork shoulder from an old Nerf football, but I’ve been perpetuating this lie for so long that someone actually bought me a $700 kitchen knife a couple Christmases ago, so I’m legit.
Here’s what you do…
When the guests arrive, make sure the front door is cracked open just enough that curiosity draws everyone into the living room to see what’s going on. Then, make sure your back is turned to everyone and pretend you’ve been on the phone for a while and say, “LOOK, you’ll get your damn money, just please don’t hurt our PopPop!”
You can play like you didn’t notice your guests coming in after you slam the phone down. This is also your chance to sell a complete and massive breakdown. If your boss is at all human, he or she will say something like, “Stuart! My Lord, what’s going on!! Who is PopPop?? Is that your grandfather??” To which you reply, “Oh God in Heaven help us, we just don’t know what to do anymore! Mildred has already sold a kidney, and I took a second mortgage out on the house, but we’re still short so much money!!”
Then, bury your face in your hands and really crank up the sobbing. No doubt your guests will try to console you and ask all sorts of questions about the police and how you got into this mess in the first place. At this point, tell them that the kidnappers have warned you that it’ll be curtains for bobo if you call the police, and then start wailing and excuse yourself to the kitchen to try and pull yourself together.
Once in the kitchen, light a grease fire in a small pan and make sure that you get enough on yourself to ignite your Dockers. Then, burst through the door while on fire and scream, “JESUS CHRIST, I’M ON FIRE!! OH DEAR LORD, THE PAIN IS EXCRUCIATING!!! MY BODY IS ON FIIIIIIRRRREEEE!!!!”
Now, really wait for the fire to go nuts on you. That’s important. If your skin burns terribly, that will sell the story even better. Be sure to explosively crash through the living room and take a few things out—a lamp, a chair, and maybe that priceless Hummel collection your in-laws gave you guys after you got married. Once you’ve flailed around for a while, throw yourself through the front window and into the front yard. Then, desperately roll around the grass to douse the flames, thereby driving several shards of the front window into your flesh for dramatic and excessive blood-spray. Wait for your guests to come to the window with their hands up to their mouths in shock, and then slowly crawl your way back through the front door. Really sell the pain and blood loss. Obviously, you’ll have to figure out a way to refuse all offers to call an ambulance at this point. Just blame it on the fact that they’d want to involve the authorities or something.
Following this, beg your guests to join you at the dinner table to try to get a grip on the situation, and then just casually mention that you’d like to bring a little food out for people to pick through. At this point, your wife comes through the kitchen door with eyeliner running down her face and her hair looking like a rat’s nest. Make sure she fights through excessive and dramatic sobbing while saying, “Honey…. You… You forgot to turn the oven off, and now the lasagna is burned.” Then you ROAR, “CHRIST ON HIGH, NOOOOOO! NOT THE LASAGNA!! THAT’S THE LAST DANG STRAW!! I’M GOING TO END IT ALL!!!!”
Recommended listening: Cannibal Corpse – “Force Fed Broken Glass”
Manny-O-War: The night is fucked, Stuart. Everyone’s gonna hate you. It’s time that you swallow that fact like you swallow your boss’s ball-juice. In twenty minutes you’re not gonna have time to make any food, so I’d recommend making a really strong punch. You might even want to drop some benzo’s into that shit, because you’re gonna have to buy some time. Next, you’re gonna want to hop on Seamless and start ordering as much Popeye’s fried chicken as you possible can. That shit is the bomb, and everyone likes it. Second, you’re gonna want to fire up a vegetarian option and a vegan option, so you look inclusive. For the vegetarian option, I’d recommend ordering some cheesy bread from Dominos. For the vegan option, I’d get a bag of salad, or whatever those people eat. Honestly, they aren’t the main concern right now. You should have roughly twelve minutes left to make the house smell like you actually did the cooking. Get some oil on the stove and make that shit REALLY hot. Then, start tossing the ruined lasagna into the hot-as-fuck oil so it smells like fried food. Next, throw a few cloves of garlic into the oven and keep that shit nice and low, like 280 degrees Fahrenheit, so people think you made the cheesy bread.
Now, if you’re not a fucking dunce, you should have at least five minutes left. This time is fucking crucial, bro. You gotta make it look like you cooked, so you better grab a fucking apron and wrap that shit around you. A pro-tip here is to make sure you’re not wearing pants. This will make your dinner guests not only distracted, but also all, “Oh, Stuart is a genius because he cares about creasing his pants.” Next, take off that shirt, you look ridiculous. Get yourself a smoking jacket from your closet and fire up a pipe so you look sophisticated as fuck when everyone shows up.
Finally, chill out, bro. Everything is going to be OK. I’ve met your wife and she’s an ace, so maybe just erase everything I told you up there and have Shar fix it up? Then maybe just try to stay out of the room, because your actual presence—and due to that weird skin condition—are not going to help you get promoted. Let Shar handle the small talk and what not. You’re gonna pop out merely to say goodbye to your guests. Make sure the foyer is poorly lit so they don’t see your hideous face.
Recommended listening: Exodus – “Blacklist”
Interested in submitting a question? Hit us up on Twitter using the hashtag #Ask2Idiots. Or you can shoot an electronic mission to contactlastrites at gee mail. We will make our selections using a sophisticated algorithm developed specifically for this feature that balances all the really important and cool factors that make great questions irresistible, so make it count.