by Wylde, Zakk
The day after he banged these Japanese girls, he found a colony of crabs in his crotch. He could literally pick them out, set them on the counter, and watch them race straight back to his nut sac. I mean, if these things were any bigger, he could have named them and walked them around on a leash.
All day long, Itch was scratching like a hound dog. He went to every pharmacy near the hotel, but the language barrier, and the fact that he was yelling and pointing at his own crotch, kept getting him thrown out the door.
Finally, he found help. In one pharmacy, the clerk watched his reenactment of what looked like some fucked-up sign language for jerking off, and right before getting ejected from the store, Itch put his hand on the nearby counter and ran it across, mimicking what a running spider would look like, or in this case, a giant STD crab. The pharmacist’s eyes widened and he began nodding and yelling in Japanese; Itch was nodding, yelling back in English, pointing at his crotch, until the clerk disappeared into the back. Moments later he returned with a shampoo that would, to this day, be the best cure for crabs that Itch has ever used. (Yeah, he’s had several visits from these sexual crustaceans over the years. While this is quite vile, it’s also very, very Metal.)
Groupies and Swedish Fish: Not Just an Appetizing Snack Anymore
METAL GROUPIES WILL DO SOME SERIOUSLY FREAKY SHIT WHEN LOOKING to win the attention of rock stars. I’ve seen chicks making out, fighting, getting gangbanged, begging for the clothes I’m wearing, even shooting Swedish Fish candies out of their pussies (yeah, you might want to read that again before moving on).
We were over in the UK, where the groupies are proven to be far kinkier than in France. We had just played a killer show in London, and I planned to hang out for a while with the London chapter, wash up, get a steak dinner, and then do what any real rock star should do in London—go drinking. London has some of the best pubs in the world and the coolest people. It’s always a good time in the pubs, and I love it when everyone in the joint starts singing. It’s usually theme songs for their soccer team, or drinking songs, but you don’t really see that in the U.S. except for a few places, like in Boston.
After hanging with our Black Label family and deciding that taking a shower wasn’t on my to-do list after all, I went to go rally the guys for some pub-crawling. The second I walked into their room, I knew something fishy was transpiring because everyone in there was dead silent standing in a half circle. As I walked up from behind them and looked over their shoulders, I saw this girl completely naked, legs spread wide open and in the air. Just as I started to ask the guys who was going to be plowing this girl into primal submission I was interrupted with, “Here it comes!”
I thought I had seen pretty much everything there is to see in the world of Metal, but this day in London, England, proved me wrong. Within a couple of seconds, this girl shot a Swedish Fish candy out of her pussy and six feet across to the guys, one of whom caught it in his mouth. She literally had fired the fish like a cannonball right down the gullet of a Doom Crew member. The result was cheers and celebrations. I could tell by the batch of candy on the floor that they obviously had been trying to make a shot like that for a while. I was just as impressed as the rest of them, astonished really. Some of us eventually made it out to the pubs that night, but not before this chick’s phenomenal display of skill racked up a few more points.
Porn Shops: An Oasis in a Sea of Time
PEOPLE ALWAYS ASK ME WHAT IT’S LIKE WHEN OUR WOMEN COME OUT on the road with us. Well, what usually happens is that all of us slobs travel around for a while on our own, and the ladies, not wanting to spend too much time with a bunch of smelly, farting, drunk, and overgrown children, fly in and out at various spots and hook up with us en route. When they do come in, we know we are going to have to be at the top of our game in the sack, and so, since we know exactly when they are coming, we have time to prepare. What that means is that we have time to hit up a porn shop and pick up all sorts of fun things to enhance the experience and make sure our ladies don’t forget who is King of the Love-making Castle.
On one occasion, my Immortal Beloved and Philth’s girl decided to come and meet up with us. In eager anticipation, our drummer Philth and I headed on down to the local adult toy store of the town we were in. We had just rolled off the bus, and so we were all decked out in full Black Label fashion: leather vests, chains, boots—the works. So we started shopping around for various dirty items and eventually brought our take to the counter, where a nice older woman was working. She looked down at the pile of dildos, Anal Eaze, and butt plugs and said quite matter-of-factly, “So, you boys planning on having a good time tonight?”
Not thinking anything of it, we told her that indeed we were. She bagged up the items and the two of us exited the store. As we were leaving with our sack of goodies, it simultaneously dawned on us how this must have looked from the outside. Two guys decked out in denim and leather, strolling into a porn shop together, and buying a veritable stockpile of dildos, Anal Eaze, and butt plugs! The only thing missing was the Village People’s song “Macho Man” soundtracking the whole episode. We just looked at each other and then burst out laughing. Next thing I knew, we were sixty-nining each other, lubing each other up with the Anal Eaze, and blasting each other’s assholes with the butt plugs. At that moment, neither of us was laughing anymore. Neither were any of the record company executives who were all sitting around the boardroom we were in, trying to plot how to promote the next Black Label single. At the end of the day, it’s all about the art of things—no matter how stretchingly painful.
What we go through to please our women and the record label! Not only do we put the security of our sexuality to the test, but many of us take it one step further and push our physical boundaries to the limit—those butt plugs were fucking huge. I couldn’t feel the shit coming out of my ass for two months. And Philth said it was three months for him.
Cock Pumps
BY NICK CATANESE
IN 2005 WE WERE ON TOUR IN SEATTLE. WE HAD A FEW DAYS off leading up to the show because Zakk had destroyed a bar with a baseball bat and that night’s show was canceled. Our tour manager Tim and I were hotel roommates for that tour. So one of those days we were bored out of our minds, wandering around downtown Seattle, and we stumbled into this sex shop. We were browsing around the store and Tim showed me this cock pump that said it would make your cock huge. Next thing you know we were back in our hotel room, each in his own bed, pants down to our ankles, staring at the ceiling and pumping our cocks. As it turns out, these things work. But I don’t think you can do anything with your swanz when they’re all monstrous like that. The pump pretty much pulls the blood from the rest of your body and fills up your dick with it.
I couldn’t wait to go tell Zakk about it and the next thing you know, we’re back at the sex shop, but with the whole band and crew this time. Zakk spent like twelve hundred dollars in the joint on these Black Label pocket pussies for the entire crew, a big rubber fist, and a bunch more of the cock pumps. Then, for his wife, he got this sex chair contraption with a vibrating dildo that went up and down. She’d obviously never use something like that, but I guess he thought he’d surprise her with it anyway.
On the night of the show, Zakk decided that all of the sex stuff was gonna be stage props. So we were up there trying to play the set and the stage was covered with cock pumps, pocket pussies, and Barbaranne’s undulating dildo chair. The whole while, Sean Kinney (of Alice in Chains) was waving the big rubber sex fist in the air.
Every night for the rest of that tour, you could hear the squish-squish sounds of the dick pumps coming from the bunks on the bus.
There are three medical breakthroughs that, when perfected, will change mankind’s quality of life forever: a cure for cancer, a cure for baldness, and the ability to substantially increase the size of a man’s cock. Now, I don’t care if a guy’s got a fourteen-inch dick; if you tell him he can get three more inches by simply taking a pill or something easy, he’ll b
e all for it. There are all types of herbal concoctions and strange devices that are sold on late-night television and in porn stores that attempt to accomplish this. One such contraption is—you guessed it—the cock pump.
As Nick mentioned, he had already done some recon on the place; he led us straight to the cock pumps. I had my doubts that they actually worked, but Nick said he had already tried one out. I figured it was my duty, as a friend and leader, to purchase a batch of these for the fellas in the band and the Doom Crew, and so I grabbed about fourteen of these cock jackers and brought the haul back to the bus for distribution. Even Thick-Stick Nick received a brand-new one, despite the fact that he’s already got it going on in that department—we call him Thick Stick ’cause he’s got one of those thick fuckin’ beer-can dicks.
Although being on tour itself is a blast, there are long stretches of time that need to be filled. That’s why we all drink so much on the road. The other pastime is, apparently, pounding one’s radish, as I found out in a horrifying situation, which ensued soon after I handed out the batch of cock pumps. It happened in the early hours of the morning, probably around three A.M. or so. I woke up and was a little thirsty, so I decided to head to the lounge to grab a beer before going back to sleep. Being considerate, I walked very quietly so I wouldn’t disturb the other guys, who were fast asleep, or so I thought. As I made my way to the lounge I heard something strange.
Squish, squish, squish, squish, squish, squish, squish…
I stopped dead in my tracks. It actually sounded like a fucked-up version of the Jason Voorhees theme music from Friday the 13th. After a brief pause I resumed my trek, and once again… Squish, squish, squish… It was coming from everywhere. Then, in grotesque astonishment, I realized what it was. From every bunk on the bus I heard the sound of cock pumps working! It was like I had been instantaneously transported into a mystical forest of cock pumps. Even with the trauma of my realization, I was able to obtain my beer, and I stealthily made my way back to my bunk.
The next day I brought it up with Nick. He broke out his pump right there on the spot and showed me this thing that sported a shiny new sticker that read MULLETS RULE.
“I blew out my cock pump, dude!” he said to me.
And he had. Thick-Stick Nick had blown out the damn rubber gasket in that thing already! Then he whipped out his schlong to show me the self-inflicted damage he had done. Nick’s poor fuckin’ dick was beat to hell! It was purple and black and had welts all over it.
“Nick! You gotta stop, man. Look at the state of your dick!”
But Nick wasn’t the only one physically abusing his johnson. After parting ways with Nick I went to the back of the bus to hang out with some of the guys. I got there and was met by the sight of two of the Doom Crew kicking it on the couch together, equipped with cold beers and strapped into those damn cock pumps, watching porn. These guys didn’t get it that all the cock pumps did was engorge their dicks and swell them up; it wasn’t going to make them cum! It’s not like the cock pumps were sucking them off or anything like that. But the band and the whole damn crew seemed addicted to these things.
The pump was actually called the Typhoon, and so from that point on, that tour was referred to as the Typhoon Tour, for obvious reasons.
Cock pumps—unbelievable!
CHAPTER FIVE
Perils of Valhalla
O, woe is the day. Our quest hath been wrought with peril and dismay. Ravens, as black as night, clouded in turbulence the skies above. Our men grew ill at ease as they felt the curse of the Underworld set in around them. The high demon Pazuzu himself has led our legions to imminent doom! The seas ran wild with anger, and capsized their vessels, and took lives to its fathomless depths. And the tide of battle was set against the Order. Every tactic outmatched. Every victorious stride thwarted. But in the true tradition of our combatant ancestors, the Berzerkers pressed on, raising their axes high and unleashing a command of “No surrender!”
Follow my lead into battle, my legions, as our own faces twist into the scowls of war. For with blood and sword and fire we shall win our right, as did the former lions of our blood! With reckless abandon we wage war in thy name, Odin! We shall take upon ourselves revenge, we shall retaliate tenfold, and his magickal wolves shall flank our valiance, as thy redemption nears.
And as the anus of the Underworld yawned in disapproval, our band of warriors fought heroically. With spear and axe, and sword and dagger, they surged forward and squeezed themselves forth from Fate’s tightening Rectum of Despair! As we raked across the blistering earth with the hand of the Gods, no man left unscathed. All were inaugurated into the Berzerkers. And as the contour of the land shook and trembled, our emergence from the steamy Bowels of Destiny was one of Victory! The image of the Skull was raised the world over.
Note from Zakk: It’s amazing how all this shit usually goes down between waking up, taking a piss, and having my first cup of Valhalla java. It’s fucking rough being a Viking from Springsteen and Bon Jovi country. And you know what else is rough? Father Eric’s ridiculous fucking imagination. “Scowls of war”? “As thy redemption nears”? What I want to know is this—is my death getting any nearer by reading this nonsensical fucking slobber? It’s not so much am I gonna die, it’s more like when am I gonna die? Probably soon if I have to read any more of this stupid shit, although it is rather amusing.
The life of the rock star is fucking awesome; I am not going to lie. I’ve truly been blessed and I love what I do. But it’s not all beer and cock pumps, my friends; as you’ve already seen, there is a good deal of work that goes into this lifestyle. If you are striving for success in music, remember, nothing is given to you; you have to literally forge it out of your blood, sweat, time, and energy. This is not a quest for the weak or for those who are discouraged easily. When you finally do reach your goal and get on that tour bus, things can get crazy, and when you hit the stage things can, will, and always do go wrong. If you can’t maneuver the mental and real perils that litter Valhalla’s landscape, then just buy yourself a pair of pink panties and skirt, and kick yourself in the balls the rest of your life for being a weak-willed pussy—kind of like JD. Actually, that’s not a fair statement, so allow me to rephrase: exactly like JD!
I have encountered so much downright lunacy in my personal quest. But that’s also part of the fun. Things that I would have never experienced in life are right in front of me on every tour and at every show. I’ve been able to see the world, but not without running into my share of danger.
Pazuzu Gone Wylde
WHETHER IT’S GETTING TO THE GIG, SOMETHING YOU ATE, AN OVERCRAZED crowd, or maybe you just got completely plastered at the airport, you’re gonna run into catastrophes. And when they strike, you’ve got to Black Label/Patton up, make the best of the situation, and keep the machine rolling. I would suggest writing all of those instances down, so that one day when you write a book you can include all of those fantastic stories. Maybe you’ll actually benefit a little from all the chaos you’ve been through over the years. And if you didn’t learn from your mistakes, at least someone else might be able to. Here are a few tales from the road when things didn’t go exactly according to plan. Whether it’s through an act of man or of God, even just getting to the gig itself can be perilous.
So there we were in London—tiny little streets, double-decker buses, the whole nine yards. The Ozzy crew was relaxing in their bunks as our tour bus made its way through town and toward the spot where the show was going to be. Then, all of a sudden, bang—a forty-car fucking pileup! I still have no idea what actually happened to cause the accident, but I do remember that the crew got it bad, flying out of their bunks and getting pretty well banged up. Thank God no one was killed. But you know what? As badly as those guys were bruised and hurtin’, they still got their asses to the show and actually made it on time! It was just another example of a GIFD moment.
We spend enough time on the buses that it’s nice when we are afforded the luxury of fly
ing to a gig, but sometimes getting off the ground isn’t always a foregone conclusion. On one occasion, I found myself stuck in this little airport-hotel bar somewhere in Europe. It was just me, Ozzy, Randy Castillo, and Geezer Butler hanging out and just fuckin’ drinking. It was raining like a damn monsoon outside and we were stuck there for quite a while. Needless to say it didn’t take long before we were all pretty wasted.
While we were knockin’ them back in the bar, our leader Nick Cua (Ozzy’s tour manager) was busily trying to figure out how we were going to get to this next gig. Of course things were totally fucked. We were a good four hundred miles away from our destination. All the flights were grounded and it was looking like we weren’t going anywhere. Nick was losing his damn mind, on the phone trying to pull something out of thin air. Nick basically just said, “Fuck it!” and rounded up a couple of rental cars. Of course by the time all the cars were ready to head out, all of us were pretty well hammered; even the Boss had taken that step beyond drunk into fucked-up land. Nick on the other hand had spent the last several hours trying desperately to figure out how to overcome all of the obstacles and get our asses to the show, so he had pretty much had it by the time he told us, “Get in the fuckin’ cars!”
We all stumbled out of the bar like a small hunting party of drunken Neanderthals and made our way out to where the cars were parked and ready. All I remember is Ozzy coming onto the scene, looking around, and saying, as only he can, “What’s going on? Isn’t there any organization around here?”
Nick, in complete frustration, just looked at the Boss and told him, “Get your ass in the fuckin’ car!”