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The Anus Chronicles: Part Two Paul Ryan "I'll tell you what Anus is gonna do, motherfucker," said Anus Stevens. "Anus is gonna make a mess on your face." And with that, Anus shot the elderly woman twice in the face. He reached into her purse, which was now covered in blood, and pulled out a pack of smokes. "I knew the bitch was carrying," he said. The rain was pouring down, and Anus was soaked all over. He felt like he had been swimming in a lake, though he hadn't done anything more than walk the streets. He felt like God. The rain was washing the blood away from the old woman's face. This displeased Anus. As the Preparation H ads always say, an unhappy Anus is a violent one, and Anus Stevens was no exception. He shot the old woman in the face twice more, dug a newspaper out of a nearby garbage can, and draped it over her head to ensure the blood stayed put. Bitch deserved to have blood stained on her face. She had broken the yolks on his eggs that morning. "You gotta cook breakfast right," Anus always said. "It's easy and essential. If you can't cook breakfast right, you might as well give up, move back in with your parents and start fucking your sister. Your inbred kids, as retarded as they'll be, still couldn't possibly end up any dumber than you." Anus walked to the bar on Juniper St. It was dark, wood-paneled, and cheap. It was like drinking at your cabin, if you invited a dozen assholes you've never met to hang out at your cabin. The bar was empty, and Anus took the middle stool. He ordered a Pilsner Urquell while he smoked the last of the old lady's cigarettes. "Who the hell is that guy at the bar?" bellowed a drunken patron. "Who's that sissy drinking Urq and smoking Virginia Slims?" "A smoke is a smoke. Let it go," said Anus, who was in no mood to kill another person that night. "Then why don't you come over here and smoke my dick," said the drunk. Anus picked up his glass and threw it at the drunk, hitting him in the nose. The glass shattered, bits of it lodging in the drunk's eyes. As the drunk sat on his knees, blood dripping out of his eyes, Anus kicked him onto his back, lit up another cigarette, and pushed it hard into the drunk's crotch. "There," said Anus. "Consider your dick smoked."
"Where's does the anus go?" screamed Anus to the rest of the patrons at his favorite bar. "Where is the place for anus? You know my name, you know my place, now tell me where the anus goes!" "Um, the bathroom's in the back," said a patron. Anus picked up a bottle of tequila and smashed it over the patron's head. Then with a flick of his Virginia Slims cigarette, he lit the patron's face on fire. After staring with a sly smile for a minute as the patron screamed, he punched him in the face, knocking him out cold. "Put out the fire, Bill," said Anus to the bartender. Anus walked out into the cool night and Bill unzipped and urinated on the patron's face to put out the fire. The remaining people in the bar stared in awe. "Hey," said Bill. "I don't own the place. I just work here part-time."
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The Descendents, in my opinion, are the godfathers of punk. In the 1980s, when punk music by bands like Joy Division, New Order, and Happy Mondays turned into crappy new-age pseudo-mainstream bile, the Descendents were still doing punk the right way.
