Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination. Rob Zombie
shit still goes on. If we own a Burger King, and somebody pulls up and orders a burger, we don’t tell him, “Sorry, we are out of burgers, but would you like a grilled chicken sandwich?” For fuck’s sake, the name of the restaurant is called Burger fucking King, not Grilled Chicken Sandwich King! No fucking burgers? STRIKE THREE, MOTHERFUCKER—YOU’RE FUCKIN’ OUT!
It would just be easier to have them give us twenty thousand records, bring them to the in-store, and whatever we don’t sell, we have for the next in-store. What the fuck is so fucking hard about that? It’s the record company’s job to make sure they sell fucking records. Do we not want to sell records? Maybe we should go into the bathroom-paper-towel business, because there were plenty of those fucking things to go around for Ozzy and the band to sign. Better yet, if they could find a way to make a living by coming up with bullshit excuses, they would. Since that’s what the majority of their job consists of—weak-willed, excuse-riddled shit. The whole thing is you’re supposed to work as a fucking team, not us against you.
Somewhere in the middle of the No More Tears tour, the record company held this dinner in some fancy banquet room and presented Oz and the rest of us with double-platinum discs. They also presented Ozzy with this gigantic frame with all of the platinum albums that he had sold—from Saint Rhoads to Father Lee to when my dumb ass joined the band. It was massive. I felt so happy for Oz—he’s one of the coolest guys on the planet and we were all there to celebrate with him.
One of the big guys at the label got up and gave a speech about how awesome Oz was and about all his years of hard work and success, how proud they were to be his record company. Then he said, “We’d like to congratulate Ozzy and his band for No More Tears going double platinum!”
Everyone began to clap and cheer, when all of a sudden Mom’s voice overpowered everything with, “It could have done fucking better!”
There was dead silence, then uncomfortable laughing, and then clapping again. And then again at the top of her lungs, Mom shouted, “It could have done fucking better!”
Needless to say it was fucking awesome.
Thank you, Mom.
Hair of the Gods: The Metal Beard
One of my favorite nicknames for Zakk is “Hangtime,” because he’s always got food or something stuck in that filthy thing that he calls his beard.
—RITA HANEY, DIMEBAG’S HAG
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I DID CHILDISH THINGS, LIKE MASTURBATE HEAVILY, drink my father’s liquor, and play the recorder. Now that I am a man I have put away those childish things—and now I masturbate heavily, drink my father’s liquor, and play the recorder. What I’m driving at is that to truly establish yourself in the Great Halls of Metal, nay, in music, it is necessary to grow up and become a man. This means a lot of different things. Some of them you will discover as you continue reading this holy parchment, which will transform the fantasy portion of your life into a reality. There is no higher honor in life than to proudly display the fact that you have evolved into manhood, and the best way to do this is to grow yourself a true Metal beard. And if you truly want to test your manliness you could also try running into your local marine recruiting center hollering, “God bless the terrorists!” However, for your safety and everyone else’s involved, let’s just stick with the beard.
Everyone from Kerry King, to Scott Ian, to Rob Zombie, and of course, Brother Dimebag Darrell himself all cultivated the sacred emblem upon his iron chin. It is a rite of passage for a band to grow beards. It’s a sign that they have moved on from a silly bullshit act into an undeniable wrecking ball of musical alchemy—or possibly that they’re too fucking lazy to pick up a razor. I’ve got to be honest with you, that’s why I’ve got one. But we’ll stick with the sacred rite of the Viking for its awesomeness. Beards have been associated with the warrior mentality and dominance for thousands of years, and things are no different in the world of Metal—or in the gay community.
If you’re too young and can’t physically grow a beard yet, don’t worry. Someday you will be able to, and when you actually can, then the time will come to test your manhood against the mothers, girlfriends, and clean-cut pussyfucks who glare snobbily down their shit-brown noses at you. For these people will entice, tempt, and taunt you to shave your beard and relinquish your power—kind of like what my family does to me. Do not give in, my friends, the OdinForce will always be with you. And once you do cultivate your hairy manhood and you lose your job, and you can’t pay the rent, and Mommy and Dada won’t let you live with them anymore—when you’ve got nothing left—that’s when it’s time to reconsider running into your local marine recruiting center hollering, “God bless the terrorists!” For the minute the marines hear this load of shit, it will be the last words muttered out of your pathetic little mouth—you pathetic little man.
Note from Zakk: This is the only magazine cover that I ever did where—because of the holiday season and me being in a giving spirit—I included JD in the photo shoot.
World Tour Survival Technique: Farming Your Chin Spinach
JUST LIKE THE STORY OF SAMSON AND DELILAH, MY BEARD HOLDS THE power of the OdinForce in its shaggy, dreadlocked twists and turns. It’s come in handy in all areas of my life.
• An Irish tickler for when I’m in the sack with my wife.
• A pointer when I’m directing JD to leave the room.
• A stirrer for my coffee, when I’m not using my schlong.
• Sometimes I like to wrap it around my own neck and restrict the blood flow while I jerk off. Okay, maybe more than sometimes.
• A flavor-saver of love for when I want to be reminded of my Immortal Beloved whilst out bleeding on the battlefields of the great Black Label crusades.
• Preparation for my backup career as Drunk Santa at the mall.
• A stunt double for John Holmes’s cock in his biographical movie.
The Talk Box
BY THE BEARD OF ZAKK
YO, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! YOU MAY NOT KNOW ME PERSONALLY, but I’m Zakk’s beard.
Now, ole Zakky boy may have gone all tutti-frutti in Beverly Hills, but I’m still keepin’ it real, a Jersey beard through and fuckin’ through. But just ’cause Little Lord Fancy Boy has gone all Hollywood on us, don’t think that I’m gonna sit here all trimmed and pointy-like and smelling of coconuts. I’m not fluffy, I’m not soft, I’m a hard-core Metal beard and just so you know, yes, if I had a stomach, it would make me sick to live this close to the Dodgers.
So anyways, nice to meet you.
Think of me as the pepperoni on the pizza, the extra cheese if you will. When Zakk makes all his crazy faces at the crowd, I’m the one that kicks that shit into gear! Truly freakin’ scary! Imagine if he just puckered up and scowled at you without me! Forget about it—I make this man! And if you think different, I’m gonna have to come out there and pluck out your eyeballs and stick ’em up your ass so you can get a closer look at reality!
Apologies, I’m a slightly angry beard.
You see, I’ve been in places that only Jersey beards have been and lived to talk about, and believe you me, it’s not all glitz and glamour being Zakk’s beard. You try it! Have you seen this guy onstage? He’s a fuckin’ slob! He spits all the time. And only about half of that makes it into the sky; I end up with a fuckin’ bath every time he decides to do that. Yo, buddy! I asked for the news, not the weather, asshole!
A lotta times I’m forced to survive off chunks of everything he eats. And more days than not, I end up smelling like that spot between a woman’s pussy and her butthole. And let me tell you—taint nothin’ pretty about that!
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