Four Ridiculous Christmas Albums that Should Exist, Plus One that Already Does

Tyler, the Creator has released a Christmas EP. Nevermind that his connection to 2018’s movie, The Grinch (yet another Grinch revamp… what, did Jim Carrey’s age that fast?), sort of leaves him with an excuse of “well, while I’m here…”–however the hell we got here, we’re here, and we’re just going to have to learn to deal with the facts. And how do we deal with the more indigestible facts of life? Well… I don’t know about you, but at Silent Motorist Media, we celebrate them.

As you can tell from the video above, Anthony Fantano, AKA, “The Internet’s Busiest Music Nerd,” is not a fan of Tyler’s Music Inspired by Illumination & Dr. Seuss’ The Grinch. I can’t be mad at that. Anthony is still (rightfully) enthralled by Tyler’s 2017 album, Flower Boy, a musical odyssey into Tyler’s back catalogue of influences by way of some seriously high-quality tunes. But come on, Anthony, you can’t expect a 10-minute EP inspired by a kid’s cartoon to compare to a full-length musical masterpiece. Tyler’s EP, to this metalhead’s ears, isn’t as bad as Fantano makes it out to be. The smooth, retrospective piano is still here, along with a dampened version of Tyler’s backing instrumentals. And yes, Tyler may be rapping about chocolate milk and the Grinch’s “big bag,” but this is a Christmas album, after all. There’s no call for all the bah-humbuggery.

In response to Fantano’s 3 out of 10 review, I think the music industry should formulate a supportive response to Tyler’s holiday endeavor. How? By making more ridiculous-ass Christmas albums. Here’s a few suggestions:

Jinglin’ Past the Graveyard by Tom Waits

Sure, the bizarre legend of music has been rather quiet lately (he’s nearly 70 for Christ’s sake), but you have to admit a Tom Waits Christmas album would be pure gold… or tinsel. There was “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis” on Blue Valentine, so there’s no reason to believe that a whole album (or at least an EP) of like-minded holiday original tracks could surface in the future. Of course, Christmas albums don’t have to be unique compositions. I’d be happy to hear Waits croon eerily to an accordion-backed version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Even better, what about a percussive “Jingle Bells” based on the sharp, angular palette of the Real Gone era? I definitely see a lot of potential here.

The True Meaning of Yemas by Kanye West

Yes, I’ve had Kanye on the brain as of late (as you’re soon to discover this Sunday), but that doesn’t make a Kanye Christmas album any less of a brilliant idea. While I couldn’t see Kanye attacking the Christmas classics head-on, there’s every reason to believe he would find himself perfectly at home with a stack of Christmas LPs to sample. After all, “4th Dimension” from Kids See Ghosts, his 2018 collaborative effort with Kid Cudi, is entirely based around–you guessed it–a Christmas sample. See? Kanye and Christmas is a match made in heaven. Kanye’s self-obsession would serve him well here, since my grand vision includes skits between tracks where Kanye “deconstructs” the classic Santa-centric view of Christmas in front of children seated around, say, a stocking-adorned fireplace. As the album progresses, the malleable minds of Kanye’s audience learn the true meaning of “Yemas”: Christmas, like everything else important in American culture, is all about Kanye.

Christmas Boat by Lil Yachty

One great thing about classic Christmas songs is that everyone can sing them. They generally operate within a limited vocal range conducive to most people’s natural ability. Even if you’re entirely tone deaf, you can’t wander too far from a Christmas song’s melodic thrust (especially timeless gems like “Deck the Halls” or “Joy to the World,” which seem to require more shouting than singing). Given Lil Yachty’s inability to sing, I couldn’t think of a better project to blunt the slump of 2018’s Nuthin’ 2 Prove than a Christmas album. The happy, minimalist beats that have become Yachty’s trademark simply beg for the inclusion of Christmas bells. Besides, what does he have to lose? Lil Yachty has been in a sharp decline since Lil Boat. One thing a Christmas album certainly couldn’t do at this juncture in Yachty’s career is hurt.

Yuletide Slay Ride by Deicide

If 2018’s Overtures or Blasphemy proved anything for Deicide, it’s that these god-murdering metal giants still aren’t tired of basking in the same themes they’ve been trumpeting since the late eighties. For accuracy’s sake, I should probably say “theme” instead of “themes,” since their edgy Jesus hate seems to be the only connective tissue keeping Deicide alive. For my money, no holiday serves a more generous helping of canned Jesus than Christmas, making a Christmas album an ideal WMD for Deicide. Featuring toe-tapping originals such as “Babe Butchered in Bethlehem,” “Murdered in the Manger” and “Cannibalized Christmas Christ,” Yuletide Slay Ride would serve the double duty of annoying Christians while adding some oh-so-desperately-needed variety to Deicide’s discography. I’m inclined to suggest that the accompanying dose of levity required for such an undertaking might help Deicide on a psychological level as well. Maybe they’d finally be able to minimize whatever the hell got them so cranky at God to begin with. Who knows? Yuletide Slay Ride might mark the beginning of a path to recovery. Make a Christmas album, Deicide, for the sake of your health.

-Justin A. Burnett

5 Facts That Prove We Are Living in a Dystopian Society

By Bob Freville

As fans of the dark and depraved, we’ve all devoured dystopian novels and movies with the same gusto that a coprophile affords 2 Girls, 1 Cup. But like the fated Neo of The Matrix, it’s time we drop the proverbial red pill and take the blinders off.

We are living in a dystopia.

As if the wild popularity of Logan Paul, Apple watches and Fortnite wasn’t evidence enough, a deep dive into our cultural mud puddle reveals all too many clues that the planet Earth is irreparably fucked.

In the age of government-sanctioned white nationalism, the “vaping” craze and the very acceptable practice of plugging into VR units, there’s no point in carrying on about this at length. The bad guys have already won and we are subjugated.

With that in mind, here is a succinct list of the hard proof of our societal putrefaction. Read it and weep, plebes!


1. The One Percent

If you’re a hardcore horror fan, you’ve probably seen or heard of Brian Yuzna’s Society. Arriving in 1992, this cult body horror flick may be laughably dated in terms of the fashion, hair styles and poor acting of its main cast, but the seemingly ancillary characters, namely the wealthy parents, are a perfect reflection of the so-called upper crust that dominates our world.

The protagonist’s “butthead” father is the archetypal filthy rich villain and the family’s elite circle of friends are representative of the ultra-exclusive club of greedy, murderous monsters that pull the strings behind the scenes. If ever you doubted that the powers that be do NOT have your best interests in mind, pop this one in your ole-fangled VCR and give it a spin.


Tell me you can’t picture a remake in which Mitt Romney and Donald Trump “shunt” each other.

2. Big Brother is Watching You…and You’re Watching It


While Yuzna’s Society is among the best dystopian movies, Orwell’s classic novel 1984 is, perhaps, the best example of the dystopian novel. What is truly perturbing about it is just how accurately Eric Blair nee George Orwell predicted our current state of affairs.

Written in 1949, this landmark story focuses on a future world in which the working class are kept under constant surveillance by a totalitarian police state.

Sound familiar?

Of course it does! There are approximately 30 million surveillance cameras currently deployed in the United States alone. They’re watching you when you’re at ATM machines, in line at convenience stores, waiting for public transit or just minding your own business on a park bench.


They’re watching you!

But you don’t care because you’re too busy watching someone else. For the last 20 years, Americans have been tuning in to the appropriately-titled Big Brother on CBS. This highly-rated reality show serves as a cruel sociological study that almost rivals the Stanford Prison Experiment in terms of sheer brutality.

Big Brother centers around the constant surveillance of “willing participants” who agree to be locked in a house together and perpetually monitored as they slowly unravel like so many onions.

Viewers delight in watching these people fall apart in their confined space which is free of any external stimuli save for the rare appearance of a talking robot who makes fun of their most embarrassing idiosyncrasies.

And while you are watching them, the Fourteen Eyes are watching you. Smile for the cameras.


3. We’re a bunch of morons

Most of us labor under the delusion that we’re pretty smart, but the facts are not in our favor. If you’ve ever watched Mike Judge’s painfully hilarious Idiocracy, in which a cryogenically frozen military man wakes up in a distant future where everyone is illiterate and savage, you probably thought, “That could never happen.”

You were half right; it couldn’t happen because it already has. In the flick, the idiots of the world lounge around watching inventive shows like Ow, my Balls when they’re not eating at Buttfuckers (a play on Fudruckers) or poisoning their crops by watering them with a Gatorade-style energy drink.

Tell me that’s far off from the current climate where a sawed-off B-list comedian hosts an obstacle course designed to pummel the shit out of desperate contestants, the president talks about grabbing a lady’s pubis and middle schoolers pound Monster cans while zipping around on combustible hoverboards.


If that doesn’t illustrate our idiocy enough, consider this: The intelligence quotient is plummeting and I bet you didn’t even know that’s what IQ stood for, did ya, you stupid shit! Fresh science has proven that our reliance on technology, our lackluster school system and our shit diets have turned us into what Hunter S. Thompson used to call the “New Dumb.”

4. We’ll put anything in our mouths


The 1979 thriller Soylent Green presented a harrowing portrait of a future wherein the congested and starving underclass are forced to eat an opaque meal substitute called Soylent Green. The citizens of New York mindlessly gobble it up without a thought until Charleton Heston of all people discovers the truth and screams, “Soylent Green is people! It’s PEOPLE!!!”

If you’re thinking that this is the stuff of silly science fiction, I urge you to visit your local 7-Eleven and take a look at their coolers. There you will likely find bottles labeled Soylent; it’s a meal replacement that has been widely embraced by health-conscious individuals who drink the chalky muck to watch their weight and ensure that they get enough protein.


The (blood) simple fact that someone would eat or drink a product bearing the Soylent name proves that we are unequivocally and without redemption a species of thoughtless, mouth-breathing bipeds.

Even more appallingly, Soylent was introduced after the company behind it successfully raised $1.5 million via crowdfunding. That means you actually paid for this to be possible, you prat!


5. A Nation of Junkies

Aldous Huxley’s seminal work of speculative fiction, the ironically-titled Brave New World, foresaw a day and age in which people would be bred to live a perpetually anesthetized life as vain, drug-dependent sex slaves with a dearth of human emotion.

Think of the face-lifts of Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, then take a look at the world of modern cosmetic surgery. Is there a difference?

Vanity aside, there is no denying the statistics of drug addiction and prostitution in the U.S. We are a nation of pain patch sucking, dope shooting, pill popping, beer swilling, hamburger gobbling mutants who would rather develop scales and enable our bodies to eat themselves than pass up that next high.


The world of sex trafficking is one that’s very much fueled by our national drug abuse epidemic. Opioids have long been a primary form of “bait” for the human trafficker and more teens are swallowed up by the rapacious maw of these synthetic drugs every year.

When someone tells you that slavery ended in the 1800s, look them dead in the eye, whip out some krokodil and give them a hot shot, Jack. How else are you gonna make a dope woke? Good luck, my friends. We’re all gonna need it.

Like and share this post or we’ll steal your drugs.

Orgy of the Dumb Anthology Cover Reveal

So here it is, the official Orgy of the Dumb cover:

In case you missed the ruckus, we’re currently accepting submissions featuring 1,000 to 4,000 word stories of “normal” people doing stupid things and leading to bad, dangerous, or downright frightening situations. We’re looking to close submissions around January 1st, so submit soon!

We don’t have a lot of restrictions on this one; just make sure your writing is tight, your story is unique, and your narrative voice is strong. Humor is welcome, and so is horror, gore, and anything weird or bizarro. Contributors will receive a free ebook copy, as well as discounted print proof copies. Please email Bob Freville with your submissions, and include your name and a short author bio either in the attached document or in the body of the email.

All proceeds from this anthology support the maintenance of Silent Motorist Media. Let the orgy begin!


Cherry Blossom Eyes by S.T. Cartledge – Book Review

Review by Ben Arzate

The Isle of Flowers is covered with cherry blossom trees, the primary resource of its inhabitants. Every winter, or “the Cold” as they call it, freezing lotus flowers bloom, requiring them to burn the trees for warmth. The trees, however, are starting to thin out. What’s worse, sea creatures called “tourists” with the ability to mimic the look of anything often come on to the island to kill the inhabitants and take their place. When Blanko and Margot begin to suspect that Margot’s mother has been replaced by a tourist, it leads them on a quest to learn the truth and find Margot’s real mother.

The sun came up a cherry blossom and burst its rose gold light into the sky. Its scent was pure and fresh, its petals flickered playfully in the cosmic wind and cast the light dancing down upon the Isle of Flowers.”

If I had to describe Cherry Blossom Eyes in a single sentence, I would say that it reads a lot like what would happen if Richard Brautigan wrote a horror novel. The setting is colorful and fantastic, yet the people who reside in it feel very much like real people. Cartledge creates an atmosphere of paranoia with the story of people being replaced by the tourist sea creatures. The Isle of Flowers is an almost-paradise seemingly ruined by outside malevolent forces.

We quickly see how afraid the residents of the Isle of Flowers are of the tourists. A large part of their society revolves around keeping them off the island and they’re very quick to accuse each other of being tourists when they act off in any way. Cartledge naming the creatures “tourists” is an interesting choice. Most obviously, it’s a reference to the hate and fear of outsiders by the locals of the Isle of Flowers. In regards to their shape-shifting abilities, it makes reference to them being the temporary inhabitants of a form which is not their own. There is also an intense irony in the creatures being called tourists when their true nature is revealed.

The most impressive thing about Cherry Blossom Eyes to me is how it combines its colorful prose with a gripping, page-turning story. I often found myself conflicted between wanting to read slowly to absorb the descriptions of the island and wanting to read through it fast to find out what happens next. The opening drew me in with a beautiful description of the island, its inhabitants, and their rituals—a misleadingly tranquil scene that sets things in motion very well.

I called this a horror novel, but I wouldn’t say that’s entirely accurate. Paranoia is a heavy theme in the book and the transforming tourist monsters come across as horrifying initially, but there is much more going on here. Besides the obvious surrealist setting, there’s a heavy coming-of-age aspect as Blanko reflects on his past growing up on the island and learning things he never knew about before. As with most “bizarro” books, this one does not fit neatly into any one genre.

Cherry Blossom Eyes is a beautifully written, gripping book. S.T Cartledge creates a unique setting and uses it to an excellent effect. This is easily one of the best bizarro books I’ve read recently and I highly recommend it.

To order a copy, visit

India LaPlace’s Sad Discoveries: A Review

Sad Discoveries

Good poetry, especially in the small press world, is difficult to come by. I don’t intend this as an attack on small presses in any way; take it as a testimony to the difficulty of writing poetry that truly resonates with readers. Poetry requires more than mere images. The image, after all, doesn’t bubble up from a vacuum; it is inherently mediated by language, and language is a rather tricky medium. It resists direct communication between image and audience, since what language renders is closer to thought than a snapshot. Perhaps this is why poetry seems closely related to music. Thought is whisked along by emotion, since there must be an impetus for reflection to occur. If this is the case, language, particularly poetic language, is primarily a vehicle of emotion.

The difficulty of poetry is the communication of emotion. Communication, as Bataille points out, is violence, while emotion is like a leaking cask filled with precious liquid. How difficult it is to splatter even a small quantity across the page before the supply runs dry! The poet might sacrifice communication to abstraction, or she may find herself lacking the skill to take cautious aim with her limited resource. Poetry, in other words, tends to try too hard, or not hard enough.

India LaPlace’s short collection from Analog Submission Press, Sad Discoveries, might look like a case of the latter at first flush. With its colloquial language and well-worn themes of heartache, depression, and the struggles of parenthood, it might prove tempting to accuse it of amateurism. Give it a chance, however, and LaPlace’s unadorned narrative voice is bound to draw you in with its confessional authenticity. Yes, I brought up “authenticity,” that frustratingly ambiguous yardstick–what else can you call the pleading inertia of guilt in “They’ll Say it was Postpartum Depression,” or the dejected anger of “Illinois”? As much as I dislike to think in terms of “authenticity,” I can’t deny that poetry, as an art form, trades in artifice. The difficulty of poetry is finding the point of trade between communication and artifice that proves most beneficial. By declining to hide behind what we could charitably think of as poetic pretension, LaPlace doesn’t pull any punches. As LaPlace warns us in “Emotions,” “I am not the kind of girl / Who will lie about my feelings / To spare yours.” And thank God for that.

This little book is truly a gem for readers who are seeking a poetic intimacy that may get a little uncomfortable. Moments of conversational discomfort–and these poems really are quite “conversational”–are also the moments in life you are least likely to forget. Sad Discoveries hovers in the melancholy warmth of a good cry in a stranger’s arms, or in the sudden blush of affection filling the gashes left by harsh words. LaPlace’s reader sinks into the dreary no man’s land of dull pain and small comforts. This is not a place for overblown sentiments. Sad Discoveries is the drama of everyday life, rendered in an offhand verse tempered by a natural flair for form.

While “authenticity” (whatever that means) wouldn’t be quite enough, and atmosphere might have been, LaPlace’s true victory resides in her keen eye for detail. Throughout her collection, understated moments of symmetry drift quietly to the surface of her free verse. The impact of these moments is only enhanced by their modest refusal to call attention to themselves. Take the following lines from “Depression,” in which LaPlace deploys a well-worn cliche:

“You work your way up.
You work hard.
And then you retire.”

The way first line ends on the stressed syllable, “up,” contrasts the wilting iamb “retire,” guiding the reader through a microcosm of the occupational rise and fall most of us are doomed to regard with familiarity. Better yet, both lines are separated by the three-stress march of “you work hard.” Here, you can feel the dumb drumbeat of a billion footsteps, marching in unison to their cubicles, a march synchronized to the beating of a heart, and equally inevitable. I said it was a cliche, and LaPlace doesn’t shrink from using more; a cliche beautifully rendered, however, can hardly be accused of remaining a cliche at all.

One of my favorite stanzas is the third of “Her”:

“She doesn’t lose her temper with me.
She watches me with those
big blue eyes
filled with worry,
filled with love.”

The iambs of the leading tetrameter and trimeter are magnificently broken here by the relatively stressed, consecutive syllables of “big blue eyes.” This metrical rift places an emphasis on the child’s blue eyes that holds throughout the stanza. How could one more effectively establish the centrality of an image in verse than this? It’s as if the considerations of the preceding iambs collapse before the sovereign gaze of innocence; the world of lost tempers and daily frustrations vanishes in a shade of blue that certainly occupies much of a narrator’s ruminations. The double trochees on “filled with worry” invert the iambic pattern, creating a thick tension that gently resolves with soft stress of “love” in the final iamb.

Love. Worry. Hate. Desire. It’s far from a fault of LaPlace that her approach to these all-too-human concerns is, despite its nakedness, fraught with a care that comes from a true appreciation of their raw power. Of course, there is room to grow (when is there not?) but I, for one, am confident that Sad Discoveries is the inauguration of a poetic voice destined to find its way into the hands of poetry lovers. I will be looking for more from LaPlace, and I hope that her courage, both in composition and in the face of the difficult situations that have inspired these discoveries, never abandons her.

Justin A. Burnett

India LaPlace is: 

Writer. Feminist. Sunshine person. Associate Editor at Horror Sleaze Trash. Former priestess on the Isle of Avalon, current swamp witch, aspiring Queen of the Underworld. Grit, grace, and ganja in the SL,UT. Mother of a child who has far more patience for my subpar parenting skills than I have for most things. Generally pleasant, naturally cynical. Easily won over by a good book and a twisted sense of humor. I’m kind of like if a dive bar and a dumpster fire had a human baby. I’m also currently balls deep in a newfound Morrissey obsession and I don’t care how you feel about it.

I can be found frequenting the farmers market on Saturday mornings in the summertime in Salt Lake City, avoiding parties I had previously agreed to attend, and on Facebook,