Egregious ideas: KMMK

A punk band acronymously denominated KMMK (Kellie Martin’s Muddy Kunt) performs weekly for hundreds of fervently adoring, shirtless fans. A B&W printout measuring 7’x7′ of Kellie Martin’s face (see below) is suspended on a metal frame during each set’s first fifteen minutes, then savagely socked, shredded, and thrown to the audience by the band’s frontman at the climax of their hit single, Punchr Fukn Fasin.

Effigy of KMMK
This is one among a variety of black-and-white effigies punched and dilaniated during every performance by KMMK. (I actually have no problem with Kellie Martin; if you can contrive a better phrase for KMMK, let me know.)

Shreds of each show’s printout retained by members of the audience who didn’t flee while doused with excrement egested by the band between sets will be signed by them in exchange for fellatio afterward.

Egregious ideas: A Night at the Theater

Imagine, if you will…

…this portrait of a puerile, etiolated manchild. Weaned on soy formula and redigested popular culture, Breighdyn bears every peculiarity of the “soy-boy”: the hypersensitive and effusive disposition, receding hairline, patchy beard, ponderous spectacles and a rictus agape in every photograph for which he postures. Tonight, Breighdyn feels secure in the society of his fellow sub-nerds, in attendance at a screening of the latest cinematic spectacular adapting for the silver screen a Marvel comic published during his infancy.
What he doesn’t expect is that at this particular showing, Breighdyn alone will bear witness to an event of unprecedented, toxic masculinity and its repercussions, which may well shake the very foundations of his convictions and psyche, here in the the most offensive recesses…

…of The Twilight Zone.

Egregious ideas: Orchestral Pop!

A comprehensive reference of popular music featuring orchestration titled Orchestral Pop! is published as a trade paperback, boasting a cover wherein a conductor turned to his orchestra is irreverently habilitated in Converse sneakers and grinning smugly at us over his shoulder. Maybe he’s flanked by guitarists in regalia conformable to that of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. A chapter therein dedicated to progressive rock spans no fewer than 300 pages. Within its first month of publication, over 200,000 boomers (nearly half of whom are still subscribed to Rolling Stone in 1988) purchase copies of the book. It was compiled by some asshole named Lifschitz who shaves his back every week.