Sinister: eXtreme elvis

[Kyla Schuller]

*WARNING. EXTREMELY UN-TWEE CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF
YOU HAVE NO APPRECIATION FOR RAUNCHY PERFORMANCE ART.*

currently in the metropolis of san francisco,
california, there exists a young fat man who likes to
perform as elvis. at his first show he took a dump on
stage and threw it at the audience. he was not invited
back to the venue, and the bay area's favorite new
performance artist was born.

six months or so later, eXtreme elvis has a following
and a philosophy. he's even a bit heavy-handed. one
doesn't expect to be preached to by a naked fat elvis
impersonator with a penchant for publicly consuming
his own piss. but one would be wrong.

on saturday eXtreme elvis performed a show. a
headliner for at least 4 months, his supporting act
was, in the words of my friend, "one long anecdote for
art school students. and it's the same anecdote-- i
saw a naked handicapped man."  their "set" consisted
of one screechy aural assault that lasted an
interminable 55 minutes. the band was composed of at
least 10 members in various states of undress, fronted
by a naked man in a wheelchair. all in all, profoundly
pretentious and uninteresting. but sinister readers
might be interested to know that their keyboardist was
a mod. while the naked middle -aged female singers
groped the naked frontman, while tits swung and cock
was stroked, the young mod keyboardist carried on as
if he was playing with a kraftwerk cover band. ah, the
prescribed disaffection of hipsterdom.

then, at about midnight, came mr. eXtreme. upon
entering the stage, he immediately pulled down his
pants and pissed in a pint glass. the contents were
consumed by his keyboardist. after making out with a
guitarist, he tore off all his clothes and began
grabbing audience members. my face did not escape his
grasp. topically, he was not performing elvis songs
this night. instead, he sang a nice song about not
being afraid of the terrorists, about not being afraid
to drive on our bridges, and about getting over fear.
its chorus was "reality," and it was a nice enough
song. he passed out joints. soon he was rolling his
naked body all over the club floor. people poured
their beers over him, so he became absolutely filthy.
he writhed around on the ground, his huge naked body
covered in wet grime, grabbing the legs, ankles and
crotches of onlookers. people ran. i hugged the wall,
inches from his grasp. suddenly a naked woman crouched
over him. with his microphone-less hand he reached up
and pulled out her tampon. while singing "reality" he
insterted the device in his own anal crevice. people
screamed. he tried to stand up. after a few mis-tries,
and a rousing finale of drums, sax and guitar riff, he
stumbled out of the club, where he slowly dressed
himself out on the firescape in the cold frisco night.

and i drove home, back over the doomed bridge,
thinking that seeing a man shove a used tampon up his
own bunghole was the most effective anti-war protest
i've seen yet. these are strange days, and sometimes
comfort must come from the most unexpected places. 

god help us all.

--kyla

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