With Zac Pennington off slathering SPF 90 on his skim-milk colored skin (or whatever it is nancy-boy rock critics do on vacation these days), the so-called editors here at Portland's "classiest" weekly have asked me to fill a quarter page with some pap they can sell ad space around. And instead of wasting this unlikely opportunity like the Reed College fuckwits who run this paper, I decided to use this sounding board to discuss an issue that our city's metal scene has been forced to deal with for the past several months: the total incompetence of Mercury music editor Zac Pennington.

To put it bluntly: Zac Pennington clearly doesn't know jack about shit. I thought having to listen to Julianne Shepherd over-emote like a transgendered wigger was bad, but at least she had the excuse of actually having tits--and then they replace her with a guy who sounds like he's got enough estrogen flowing through his veins to rival an army of Clay Aikens! Even a passive skimming of dude's middling contributions to this feeble bum blanket reveals Pennington's bungling ineptitude: first of all, he only seems interested in covering the most limp-wristed, over-exposed indierock twitcore assholes from Williamsburg or Montreal--see his predictable handjobs for Arcade Fire, and Antony & the Johnsons, not to mention the countless pussy-whipped articles the asshole has farmed out. Meantime, he totally ignored the fact that LAMB OF FUCKING GOD played last week (yes, it was with Slipknot--but still). Way to Ride the Lightning, dude.

Compounding this bullshit is mister (an assumption) music editor's mystifying obsession with Ashlee Simpson, Lindsay Lohan, and all the other dance skank teenagers making their robotically enhanced bubblegum pop these days--a fascination based in either Pennington's terrible taste or latent pedophilia, whichever is worse. I mean, shit man--do you even have ears?

Worst of all is this rambling bullshit excuse of a column--like I really give two shits about the musings of a desperately self-involved indierock douchebag stumbling deaf and blind through the wilderness of contemporary hackery… get over yourself.

If you're as sick to death of towing Zac Pennington's mediocre indie line as I am, I suggest you check out some real music. Check out the skull-fucking majesty of my obscenely triumphant band, the Mercury-ignored Septic Malice. With axe and chalice, we shall prevail. Rock the fuck on, motherfuckers!

Septic Malice plays every second Tuesday at Going South Tequila bar in Beaverton.