Well, shit. I have a cacophony of half-baked ideas for articles that will probably never make it passed the mental cutting-room floor – Or as I call it, the conceptual slaughterhouse. Within the conceptual slaughterhouse is a room at the center of the compound where the dismembered ideas use the vestiges of their unholy energies to fuse mis-matched limbs together like some kind of Franken-thought. That’s a bit flat for a fusion of incredible horror – How about we call it a Frankenberry-Thought? All in agreement? Good.
These Frankenberry-Thoughts are half alive and completely engulfed in lunacy. Most of the time they gnaw on the chains they aren’t connected to with their purplish-green gums. Leave them alone, they’re confused. Eventually, enough of them will realize their cohort’s chains taste like ass compared to their own shackles. With this realization, they will mobilize a combined effort to bust the walls out of my brain-prison like the corpses in Herbert West: Re-animator. Once freed (This is the hypothetical part) the Frankeberry-Thoughts will presumably form a haphazard punk band and attempt covers of NOFX covering Bad Religion covering The Clash…because Punk Rock is all about keeping traditions alive. After a small time in squalid poverty playing free shows to kids with absurd hair-dos, they find a spectral talent scout from Epitaph records and hit the big time as the world’s first Post-Life Punk Rock band.
After a few successful tours through the area in World of Warcraft where the Undead people live (or…decay?) and a special appearance in Eric Powell’s The Goon, the demonic force that Glenn Danzig utilized for his career with The Misfits confronted the Frankenberry-Thoughts. Danzig attempted to use his favored technique: The Flaming Studded-Bracelet Punch – but the Frankenberry-Thoughts had one more trick up their sleeve. The dreaded concept album. It was their only hope. The Frankenberry-Thoughts began to use obscure chords and ludicrous melodies to form 13-minute songs about confusing metaphors which obliterated the attention span of Danzig. Now restless, Danzig attempted to displace his discomfort with a cigarette but he kept pacing in his listlessness. The Frankenberry-Thoughts knew he was going to crack but Danzig would make them work for it.
Once the crescendo of the Frankenberry-Thoughts’ opus collided with the spectral temporal membranes of Danzig, he couldn’t take it. His cigarette was gone, his patience was eroded, his balls were itchy, and he couldn’t tie his shoes. Danzig saw his defeat coming. He swore to defile the groupies of the Frankenberry-Thoughts one day but to his dismay, the Frankeberry-Thoughts spent too much time in the Misfit Dimension to continue their tour and Epitaph dropped them from the label. Drowning in obscurity, the Frankenberry-Thoughts moved back into my head like a freight-train lobotomy. They set their axes down (the drummer literally had an ax) and went back to their gnawing only now they returned with the knowledge of occult punk-demons and a disillusionment involving the Undead Music Industry.