The Dead Rebel Society - DRS - Dead Rebel of the Week

Dead Rebel of the Month

People and events that changed the world... ish

Beppo Blitzkrieg

gives his opinion on whatever

Blitzkrieg Reviews

~ Drinking out of the hose since 2004 ~ Lounging on the couch since 2007 ~

Welcome to the home of our resident drunken ass clown. Here you will find nothing of substance, and nothing that makes sense. We pay him in dog biscuits and Jack Daniels, so you get what you pay for. Heat? Kitchen? No? Well, get the fuck out.

Dead Rebel of the Month

Lemmy

Some idiot on this site once wrote that the patron saint of the Dead Rebel Society was that fucking idiot China man who tried to commit "suicide by tank" during some protest I couldn't care any less about if I tried (and I did try - nope, still nothing). Whoop-dee-doo. Big deal. Did not change my life one bit. I still drank Chinese whisky (the one with the disintegrating rattlesnake inside it), I still watched Chinese panda porn, and I still drove a Chinese fucking car (don't ask). Whathever the hell problems that guy had, he sure as hell is not my goddamn patron saint. "Well, Beppo," you say, shuffling your feet nervously, "do you really like anybody, though?". Like? Who the fuck cares about "like"? I don't even like myself. I do, however, RESPECT a whole bunch of people, and downright WORSHIP at the altar of a handful chosen ones.

One of the figureheads of my religion just let the grim reaper drag him away, and my whole world came to an absolute standstill for a moment. And when I say "standstill", I mean it. I got so depressed I drank myself retarded and ended up with alcohol poisoning, which in turn cured my depression like a charm (because, hey, ALCOHOL!), but also sent me into a coma that apparently lasted for six months or so. I woke up a couple of days ago on the sidewalk outside my crib, with a ripped IV dangling from my arm and a paper bracelet that said "Humanoid Subject #46A". I was still wearing the open-ass hospital gown, and I have decided to keep it on. I like the way it makes my ass nice and cool, and people let me cut in line at the liquor store like I'm royalty. Or something...

Where was I? right, the grim reaper dragging my dead god away to the afterlife...

Lemmy Kilmister is the patron saint of MY dead rebel society. If I am to understand the "powers that be" around here, the whole point of this goddamn site is that I can choose whoever the hell I feel works for me, so there it is. My patron saint can out-fuck, out-drink, out-curse and out-rock any fucking skinny China man any day of the week.

Once upon a time there was nothing. In this nothing, a whole bunch of artists and acts strived to poison the mind of the young with their pointless musical ditties and carefully arranged tunes that both rhymed and stayed within some safe fucking framework of what music was supposed to sound like. I know, I like a lot of fucking bands from this time period, but that doesn't make a good set-up, now does it? Shut up and pay attention. Along came Motorhead... All hairy balls swaggering, whickey-breath stinking, wart-sporting and ugly as fuck with the volume up to 10 on everything. They kicked rock'n'roll in the ass; for "rock'n'roll" it was. Lemmy told me himself, "Don't call us a fucking heavy metal band. We're a rock'n'roll band". As much as he, himself, worshipped Little Richard, he took that scene and sent it crashing down around the ears of those happy limp-dicked old-timers and anybody that followed. Full frontal assault speed punk rock'n'roll; like Chuck Berry joined the Sex Pistols with the chainsmoking one-lunged drunken geezer from the local bar on vocals. Right on! Motorhead didn't make it pretty. Motorhead didn't put on appearances. Motorhead didn't give a fuck. Motorhead kicked me in the nuts and sent me into a tail-spin for years to come, realizing that music could be good AND have hair on its chest.

I'm not even going to go into the "early life of..." and "the Steamhammer years...", because I'm not fucking Wikipedia, but instead list the reasons why Lemmy rocked:

1. He kept the wart. Enough said.

2. He wore Nazi memoribilia because he thought they looked cool. He didn't care one fucking iota what the world around him screamed. Here is this rough English dude, with a history of black girlfriends and very much anti-Nazi politics, sporting the arch enemy regalia. Did I mention he didn't give a fuck?

3. He stayed in the same tiny rent-controlled hoarder-themed apartment by the strip in LA for ages. No fucking mansion. No Jaguars. He could walk to the Rainbow from there, and WALK home, for the kicker is:

4. He drank like a fucking FISH, but I never ever saw him drunk! Not once. Now, this could be due to the serious amounts of speed he did to keep himself upright, but the fucking guy never even slurred! Well, he slurred when he was sober (if he ever was?), so it was really hard to tell. Anyway... He could hold his liquor and that gets a golden star in my book! I remember one night when my buddy's band opened up for Motorhead, and we all got fucked up on Jack and Coke and speed, because we wanted to be Lemmy so fucking bad, and we failed so fucking hard. I was actually a normal straight A college student before that night, with a plan to become a brain surgeon. That night ruined me for all future professions. All of them. Now I pay DRS half my mom's pension to let me stay in the office, and also have to submit these dimwitted rants without pay. I am my own fucking Chinese sweat shop. Where is my fucking trusted China man to come stand in the way of DRS to save me? See... Fucker's don't care.

5. He never changed! He was a man true to his core. Money didn't change him. Success didn't change him. People didn't change him. He had one opinion, and that was his own. He created his own musical vision, and STUCK to it through thick and thin. I admire the fucking strength and confidence in a person to stay in this toxic fucking music scene through five fucking decades and come out on top, unscathed, unchanged, but having fondled the hearts, minds and tits of millions.

At the end of the day, I am happy in my state of retardation because of people like Lemmy. Fuckers who mean what they say, do what they say and don't give a fuck whether you're on board or not. People who don't conform, don't suck dicks, don't put on the white suede jacket with the fringes, and don't change because the world demands it. In this world of shiny-teethed fuckers elbowing each other in the ribs to get in the fucking spotlight, Lemmy had more class, integrity and charisma in his motherfucking wart, than the whole celebrity A-list combined.

Now I am going to get fucked up on Jack and Coke, and do so much speed I can run a marathon in a galloping handstand (ass-open gown and all). Any reason to drink is the right reason after all.