Sunday, 11 September 2011

Issue 5

Dear readership of 4-5 people....before casually flicking through the 5th and final instalment of my literary masterpiece 'Tauranga Music Sux' while no doubt watching some of the old ruggers on the doofus box -  please do take a moment to join me in thanking all of those that have made this possible. So the shit musicians, lame venues, crap bands, stand up and take a big never ending bow...thank you for being such a giving goldmine of acerbic, spiteful, comedic material. Keep reaching for the stars but barely lifting your feet off the ground you sad bunch losers. God I love to hate this town.... 
Zine 5

“Heeeeee haaaawww!!!!! John boy get your rattle snake boots and monkey hide over here a ways and join me for some of that ol’ readin’ gas the folks been talking about….Y’all see this?…here…have a look…This pamphlet been sayin’….spit ….that… spit…that ….Tauranga Music Sux…?....?...”
“Well aint that a cow lickin’, shoe cobblin’, hay bailin’ affront to our own personal sensibilities Cousin Jed. How dare some one insinuate that Tauranga Music is sub par to that of other townships…Has this here little inner city weasel not been to one of our yearly barn dances out at the Tauriko hall. Don’t he not appreciate the fine banjo slinging tunes of Rufus and the Rough Gut Rangers? Don’t he not get the simple yet forceful fun of Mavis and the Mountaineers? Don’t he not understand the social relevance of Tractor Tim and the Tiny Tug Boat Jug Band.???? These here city folk sure aint very smart like….”
“Don’t know what ya be finking there inside that little old acorn brain of yours ol’ cousin and also father and also brother and also uncle but I’s aints gonna be takin no guff from some shiny tailed, little, gonna take my farm then marry my daughter intellectual banker type from the big smoke. I am’s gonna be’s the only one here to marrys me my fast flowering virgin daughter. Hey Debbie Sue….get your pert little blossoming backside over here so John Boy and I can get a good ol’ look at the shit that I soon to be tappin’ like…and make it snappy little madam.”
“Sorry Poppa, been trying to milk all the cows, cook your breakfast, feed the chickens, process the eggs, rotate the crops, plow the fields, turn Mamma so that she don’t get no more of them bed sores that the Dr been so worried about, walk the dog and wash the clothes. But I can see you’re real busy like talking to Jed and attempting to read that Tauranga Music Sux pamphlet that you’ve been carrying around on your person for the past few days. Have you finished yet Daddy? Or is that first word still giving you trouble? It’s pronounced Ev-er-y…”
“That’s enough of your sass young lady….don’t make me wash out your mouth with a bar of jism soap again. We’ve been a readin’ and John Boy and I don’t like this here tone from this mealy mouthed little marmot and his malignant, masturbational words on music from these here parts….”
“But Daddy he speaks the truth, he spreads the gospel, Tauranga Music does suck!!!  Big Bertha playin her fiddle while Rhonda does some old timey piano honky tonkin’ to a bunch of line dancing hicks is so dated, so passe, Tauranga does need more than our backwater banjo bashin’. We need change, we need a new style, we need to expand our formulaic line of dance into more expansive, spontaneous patterns, but most importantly we need a new breed of musicians that don’t suck…”
“Slap…take that…Slap…and that….aint no daughter of mine gonna talk about our localities bards and bardettes with such a loose, filthy mouth. Woman you gotta start learning your place is out in the field, the kitchen, the bedroom, the workshop, the roof cleaning the gutters, the side of the house painting the window sills, the basement fixin’ our plumbing problems, the green grocers getting our food supplies, the bank sorting out our financial matters, the market sellin our farm products, the middle of the woods hunting for food for our kin, choppin’ wood for the fire, the neighbours house fixin their dinner, plumbing and financial problems and the middle of the ocean working in an off shore oil rig so as that we might get cheaper oil per drum to run our old rusting Tractor….Most certainly is your place not leaning on this here fence post talking the state of contemporary Tauranga Music with John Boy while getting a very sun burnt, potentially cancerous, crimson red neck, drinkin’ root beer and munchin on home made corn bread. Which reminds me, we are out of corn bread and root beer. So get back to work….enough of your larkin’ about….you dilly dallyin’…..lazy…no good….2 bit….whore….why I oughta slap the pretty right outta ya face….but I won’t…cause ….hee hee….I’ve got just the job for you…one that needs a womans touch….a pretty face….but not much smarts….go to the city… and try to find this here little author ant anus….this blasphemous bum fag….use your feminine wiles….infect him….make him sick with love….and then lead him to us so that we might deal to him with some Southern Tauranga Justice…Yeeeee Haaaawwwww…..But don’t take the tractor….walk….you could do with the exercise…. those thighs of yours are getting awfully fat…though they will be good for carrying my children….Yeeeee Haaaaaawwwww!!!!!!”

The Adventure Begins  

Debbie Sue packed her fox fur shawl and bear skin jacket into her rucksack and left the gates of the Clampett family farm riding a top her faithful Stead, the powerful, big dicked, former star of such bestiality classics as ‘Soggy Sea Biscuit’, ‘The Horse Wang from Snowy River’, ‘22” Black Beauty’ and ‘Sexretariet’ cause fuck walking- that’s for poor people, Ghandi and hippies. With her horse riding beneath her ample thighs she was happy to be on the open trail, happy to be away from the incestuous, predatory advances of her father, happy to be alone with her thoughts. Her mind quickly went to the person she was supposed to find, the writer of Tauranga Music Sux. She had read his zines and loved them very much. She loved his erratic, rambling, mostly incomprehensible writing style, the incomplete sentences, the doodles of doodles, the passionate hatred behind his words and his colourful and sometimes inventive use of cuss words. Oh she hoped that she would meet him and that he would be every thing that she dreamed of in a man. But never would she do as her father expected and bring him back to the deep south…of Tauranga where surely he would be lynched for his heresy.  She hoped instead that he would fall madly in love with her and whisk her away from her torrid, exhausting, unfulfilling life to a land of excitement, adventure and freedom. But how would she find him? She knew that the zines were once available at Tracs, Devenport Road but they had been banned recently after a central city out cry. Even in the liberal, cultured, big city honest truth is still very much verboten. But she would aim for Tracs anyway. There she may find some clues as to his where abouts. She set her GPS system and fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that her super Stallion, Wyatt would take her there….


Debbie Sue hadn’t had a chance to read Issue 4 of Tauranga Music Sux due to its limited print run and aforementioned retail banning. So when she arrived at the gates of the Tauranga CBD she was aghast to find that most of the buildings had crumbled into a rubble, smoke still billowing from some of the larger stores and buildings. As she rode she saw bodies littering the streets, rats a top eating a full 3 course meal of human. She stopped old Wyatt and jumped free, spewing up her early morning feast of viddles onto the street. As she tried to recover her balance she heard a soft nasally, whimpering coming from one of the destroyed shops. She could see a hand poking out, a cigarette dangling loosely from the fingers. Quickly she ran over and tried to free this person from their prison. Piece by piece she revealed a little more of the trapped human until eventually she saw the retarded, grinning, black ash covered face of a manboy staring back at her. “Buy…buy…you must buy a Cd…from us…Tracs…do you like Flying Nun…we have a great selection from their back catalogue…don’t go to JB Hi Fi…they’re over priced, don’t have listening posts and their staff have limited musical knowledge….save my business…do you have a cigarette?” he croaked barely audible, no doubt in a state of shock. “What happened here?” Debbie Sue asked while attempting to shake him out of his stupor. “Bombs….Bombs…’Louder than Bombs’ is the best Smiths album….” He muttered. She had no idea who the Smiths were, nor would she want to but she could understand the point he was trying to make. Tauranga had been bombed, that and she should buy a Cd and keep his struggling operation in business. “Who…who…did this?” she shouted, almost crying. “Who?.... No ‘the Who’ didn’t do this…..though if Pete Townshead did he’d never admit it….he’d just say it was research for an upcoming novel.” He garbled. “Not, ‘the Who’ -  you muppet. Jesus man there is no time for an Abbot and Costello greatest hits rendition, you must tell me who did this to you, to Tauranga, it’s an abomination.” The little man in the rubble replied “Abomination? Is that a 4AD band?” then he snapped back into consciousness “Oh wait…I remember…Tauranga Music Sux…they got everyone associated with the music industry in Tauranga; bands, shop owners, fans, journalists together at the various musicial hotspots of the city, the venues, the retail outlets and then blew everyone and everything up with orchestrated bomb blasts…they are trying to kill local music….did they succeed…oh shit…they did…who’s going to buy my Cds now...oh no…there aren’t any Cds left are there….fuck…now I’ll have to get a real job…noooooo…..” Debbie Sue did not like to see any animal suffer so she removed her Colt from her holster and put one quick bullet into the head of the now inconsolable crying manboy in the rubble. “I’m sorry manboy, but it’s over now. But I will avenge your death. Tauranga Music Sux will suffer for what it has done to your shop and Tauranga Music…” Searching through the ruins for any clues that may lead her to Tauranga Music Sux she came across one of the discarded zines with a link to the Tauranga Music Sux facebook page, if she was ever going to find the perpetrator it would be through this site.

Debbie Sue and the Seven Sporks

With the majority of Tauranga town leveled it would prove difficult to find working Internet to access the Facebook page but Debbie Sue was now motivated by severe unbridled hatred and anger for Tauranga Music Sux and vowed to herself never to return to the Clampett family farm until she had found the writer of Tauranga Music Sux and made him pay for his crimes against humanity. Tears fell from her eyes as she passed the craters that were once Krazy Jacks, Illuminati, Brewers Bar, and Major Toms. Why would someone do such a thing to these amazing super venues? She could visualise these places in their former glory – with the regulars going spastic for Rage Against the Machine covers at Krazys, Tiki Tane fucking the police and then getting fucked by the police at Illuminati, bands playing to no one except the bar staff at Brewers and hipsters pretentiously hipping and hopping to Bowie at Major Toms. Why? Why would someone do this? Yes the existing music sucked massive amounts of cock, and I mean cock by the tonnage but at least give it a chance to reform itself. Don’t just destroy it all. Hack down the bands, venues, fan-yes!!! Hopefully motivate them to better themselves. Force them to re-evaluate themselves and their musical output. But don’t just eradicate them all before they have had a chance to enact change. Give them the means and they will produce the goods, she optimistically told herself. As she rode she heard a shout…Morty startled jumped high onto his hind legs throwing Debbie Sue awkwardly to her back on the hard asphalt and galloped off into the distance. Quickly from out of one of the still standing buildings came a collection of about 7 longhaired scruffs. They carried the unconscious Debbie Sue inside their hiding spot and attended to her welfare with a mixture of hot and cold water applications, a variety of band aids, and some roaming fingers. When she awoke she was surrounded by the 7 ugly yet friendly faces of the odd ball collection of misfits that were her rescuers and nurses. “Huh…where am I…who are you…what happened…?....?...” she exclaimed drowsily. “We are Spork and you are in the land of Oz…nah I’m fucking with you….your in Kansas….nah… you’re in what remains of Bobbys Strip Joint in the Mt Maunganui CBD….can you smell the seed….you fell off your horse….we rescued you from the street before they came….” Said the head dwarf, Leamy. “Oh thank you, thank you…but who are they?” “They? They are minions of Tauranga Music Sux. They patrol the streets night and day searching for musicians, CD’s, musical equipment, memorabilia, stereos and anything that could be related to music in any way. If they find anyone or anything even remotely musical they will destroy it on sight and execute those that were in possession of it. We have had to be real careful. Our formerly ear bleedingly noisey Mr Bungle esque metal band is now a mere 7 piece Jethro Tull influenced goblins and dragons loving flutes and lutes folk band. But I guess that’s what we always were, now we have just been forced to embrace it. And truth be told we are loving it. But we must be quiet, very quiet so we practice only during the day when most of the Tauranga Music Sux patrols are searching the outer suburbs for garage band hold outs….say you look tired….hungry???” Leamy asked his guest “Actually yes, It’s been a long couple of days”….. “Duh, here have one of these…”…. “An apple, I love apples!!!”…crunch…thud…”Nooooo!!!…Fuck Dopey/Ashley did you give her the poisoned apple we were going to give the writer of Tauranga Music Sux in the event that we should ever met him?”an exasperated Leamy yelled at his band mate          “Duh…Gee I don’t know Mr Leamy…uh duh.” Mumbled Ashley “ Fuck!!! Bitch can’t blow us all while in a coma Ashley….Fuck!!!! Well I guess we are stuck with Ho White now until a handsome prince comes along to awaken her from her slumber with a kiss…well who wants to rape her prostate body in the mean time?” But then just before Richard Steele could commence with his first dibs dick dipping a knock came at the door. “Everyone hide” whispered Leamy. He looked through the peep hole…he recognised the face….it was Luke Thompson…. “Someone order a big slice of handsome prince?” Fuck yeah they did!!! Prince Luke came inside and saw what had to be done, he didn’t want to kiss her without asking permission from her dad first and he was chaste so he felt a little guilty about cheating on God but it had to be done because his friends from Spork really wanted fellatio and he didn’t want to let anyone down so he busted out his acoustic and sang a ballad about how he felt, then smiling at an imaginary camera as the last notes of his wussy fag song rang out he lent over and kissed Debbie Sue on the mouth. She awoke and instantly fell in love. A real prince had rescued her!!! How romantic. She leapt into her saviours arms. “Mmmm….Fuck me, girl lips, Christian boy” she growled. But girl lips Christian boy wasn’t ready for this and stepped backwards and fell into a pile of cymbals whilst screaming for mercy. “Fuck” Leamy screamed “they will have heard that… we have got to run” but they were too late the Tauranga Music Sux minions had been trailing Luke Thompson after a tip off as to his where abouts from local satanists D.I.C and busted down the door and used their vapourises one by one on the members of Spork and Luke Thompson turning them to a fine dust but they stopped when they saw Debbie Sue. What a vision…what beauty…what a face…what slammin titties!!! The writer and his penis would be very pleased to see her they thought, they would no doubt be rewarded for bringing him such a prize and so she became their prisoner.

The Writer

The Writer paced up and down the carpet of his new office a top the Westpac Trust building, surveying the damage to his hometown. What had he done? He thought to himself. Yes local music had to die. It was hideous. The bands were substandard, the venues inexcusable, the fans nonexistent. But to destroy the entire city as well was not part of his original plans. He loved this city, just not the people, the music, the urban sprawl the shopping centres, the elderly, the infrastructure, the noodle canteens, the boy racers, the tradesmen, the polytech, the families, the beach, the fisherman, the subdivisions, the rugby, the fat cunts, the teenagers, the children, the traffic congestion, the high rise apartments at the mount, the lack of native trees, the cost of parking, the violence and the council. Collatoral damage was to be expected but this, this is an apocalypse and now he has turned into that which he hates most an authoritarian, didactic, dictator to mindless, gormless, directionless peons. How did it go so wrong? Why did he take the local bad music so personally? It is just music. The domain of the self obsessed, arty farty, head up your arse, no compunction for anything of real merit, pretentious, penis eaters. Why care so much? Why take it all so personally? Just get over it. Get a new hobby. Move towns. Go overseas. Dumb yourself down by eating pies. His guilt gnawed away at him. He decided that he could no longer live with himself. He must end his existence. Without him and his ridiculous ideals the city will have a chance of  renewing itself, the lemmings will have to rebuild the city in their own way, maybe they will improve on it’s former staid nature, maybe Tauranga can become truly great. He took a 10 meter run up and started to bound. Ring…Ring…the intercom was going. He was quite preoccupied with his imminent death but he couldn’t let the intercom keep buzzing it was rude and unfair on his P.A. He stopped and picked up the phone. “Yes…Someone to see me?…something I might find interesting?….no I’m not especially busy…send em up….” The writer couldn’t fathom who would be coming to see him. Since the mini rapture he had cut himself off from the rest of the world. His guilt meant that he couldn’t find enjoyment from human company. He chose to be alone, suffer in his head and occasionally play beginner Spider Solitaire on his Laptop when he wasn’t self flagellating. The office door opened and a body was forced inside., It was Debbie Sue “Let me go…let me go” She screamed. Upon seeing The Writer she gasped “Who, who who, who who, who, who are you…I really want to know…..who are you, are you are you, are you?” The Writer put his hands to his head “No…no…shut up…shut up!!! Don’t quote those lyrics….anything but…just not ‘the Who’ from their interminable 70’s period. Fuck it sucked a big ass. Keith Moon was a bloated Nazi regalia wearing piss head and Daltry was busy off making crap films and Townshead was looking at child porn and the other one…fuck who cares…he plays bass…their music suffered…it raped cats…” Suddenly Debbie Sue knew who it was that she stood in front of “You….you…” she pointed at the writer and lunged “you did this, you are responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocents, the end of an economy, the destruction of local music, the end of Tauranga as we know it. You….you must pay!!!!” She picked up a lamp and tried to scone the Writer but he easily over powered her because she is a woman and therefore really weak and also not very smart. As they wrestled he stared at her, she was so beautiful, so full of life, so passionate. Everything he was not.  He was smitten. Her golden hair. Her tiny little inbred nose. Her massive child bearing hips. He was in love. Finally he wrapped her up so that she couldn’t move and asked her who she was and why she was in his office trying to scone him with a lamp. Upon spitefully telling him her story he picked her up by the shoulders and agreed with her whole heartedly….he did have to pay for his actions. He was a monster, a cad, a rotter. He would do as she asked and go back with her to the deep south…of Tauranga where he would be no doubt be punished for his genocidal, homicidal, actions. He would do it partly out of guilt but mostly out of the power of the poon and also cause he had some awesome Hillbilly one liners he wanted to try out on the locals… they would leave in the early hours of the morning, that is after the minions had located her faithful yet now errant probably busting human bitch box on the beach stead Wyatt. Now as night fell they rested on the office floor of the Westpac Trust. Well Debbie Sue did, the writer just rested his hand on his cock as he watched her sleep…

The Return to the South  

Debbie Sue was anxious to get back to the Clampett Family Farm. Her brush with the outside world was not the journey of fulfillment she had yearned for. She hadn’t found the vast sea of opportunity she had been hoping to set sail on. But she believed that upon her return things would be different, she would be treated with the respect she desired and so deserved for having brought the villainous Writer to his apologetic knees. But riding into her sleepy hamlet her hopes were quickly dashed by the audible, ear burning gossip of the local milk maids making snide comments over her seemingly ever expanding thighs. Debbie Sue started to sink. Then from out of nowhere her Dad rushed up to Wyatt and yanked her off the horse she rode in on.

“Where were yee. Ma tea was not made last night, your momma wasn’t turned 15 times during the night like she should’ve and the cows are so full of milk they are lactating all over the place. What ya gotta say about that missy”

“Poppa…but Poppa you sent me off to locate and bring to you the head of the writer of Tauranga Music Sux for his blasphemous words against local music. Which I did….see Dadday…see…are you proud of me…your little ol’ Debbie Sue”

“Oh right….good job…good job…whore…now go make me some Corn Bread….”

“Oi, fuck you pal” said the Writer “ Talk to her like that again and I’m going to get off the back of this here horse that I have been loosely tied to cause women cannot tie knots to save themselves because they are weak, useless, vacuous creatures and fuck you up. I am born and raised in Tauranga so I know the ancient art of Tauranga meat sack fighting so don’t think I’m bluffing….”

“Ahhhh The Writer man huh….spit….just the person I want to see now that I’ve been reminded that I wanted to see you. Big words huh….like to mock Tauranga music huh….what have you done huh….when did you last sell out Tauriko hall….when did you last appear at Carolines Country fair….don’t remember seeing you at Jakes Music Jamboree or Hanks Happy Ho down….your a nothing and yet you use your big words to mock those of far greater talent than yourself….huh.”

“I know, I know I’m a nothing. And you’re right I’ve never zonked the zone that is Zekes Zany Waffle House or Jebediahs Jandal Jukebox but I’m a student of music, I love it, I live it, I breathe it, I eat it with milk and brown sugar and so it pains me to see substandard output when there is so much untapped potential for something far greater. So I still stand by my earlier declarations….Tauranga Music does suck!!!! But maybe, just maybe bombing the fuck out of Tauranga and destroying all music was a tad too excessive. Gawd, I was just trying to help but infact I think am a big part if not the biggest reason why Tauranga Music Sux so much. If we all worked together harnessing our positive energies instead of humorously slaying all those that try and fail then we might be able to bring about significant change. I apologize for my actions and swear to do whatever I can to bring Tauranga back to its former way below average status…”

“Not so fast buddy!” said two voices in unison coming from the tree line of the hamlet. Two dark figures came slinking out from the shadows. It was Derrin Richards and Natures Worst. “Fuck you Writer, you did as we all wanted you to do and destroyed this music scene yet here you are now apologising like a little fag and saying you are going to reverse the damage. No fucken way!!! We have waited too long to see this scene crumble…. Now finally we are safe from the dross that is Tauranga Music so don’t think for even a second that we will let you undo your hard work. We will kill you first.” And at that they aimed their guns at the hapless writer as old Jed jumped clear of the action while holding onto his old straw hat with one hand and suppin’ his root beer thus moistening for easier digestion the Corn Bread already in his mouth with the other.


Shots were fired. The Writer clutched his chest, then slowly brought his hands up to his face but there was no blood. He looked up just as Derrin and Natures Worst were falling to their knees, behind them gun raised was Debbie Sue. She lowered her gun and smirked as The Writer looked on amazed.

“Why…why did you save me?”

“Because it is I that gets to kill you…not those two sycophantic schlubs.”

“But why???…can’t you see that I love you….r slammin’ titties!!!!...”

“Why? Because you killed the one that I truly, whole heartedly, very fleetingly loved….Prince Luke Thompson…We could have been happy together….knitting scarves for children with cancer, vaccinating Ethiopian orphans from Polio, singing to the deaf and doing performance art for the visually impeared…that is at least until I wanted premarital sex… at which point I would have had to get ma’ sexual gratification from ol’ Wyatt… because that little puss wouldn’t have wanted to do ma’ puss…. And fuck you for insinuating that I’m not dat smart like…Eat lead…”


“Die mother fucker!!!! Yeah boy. Westside for life. Smoke it fool.Fully.”

The bullets cruised through the body of the writer and he went into a dreamlike state of remembrance. Enercia, the Rockshop, Spork, Kiss Fm, Major Toms, Luke Thompson, Krazy Jacks, the Mellow Drops, Machete Justice, Brewers Bar, Winston Watusi  - they were all there and would forever haunt him in the hell he was destined to go to - Taihape. But he promised himself once he got to his eternal resting spot of fire and brimstone he would try and cut a deal with music mega mogul and the true architect of all good art  – Satan and aim to do something for Tauranga Music that would help rather than hinder any further. He would release a poorly designed, cheaply produced, inexpensive compilation of Tauranga Music imaginatively titled ‘Tauranga Music Sux:Vol 1….Deride the Shite-scene’.  It wouldn’t sell much because the music on it would aptly SUCK and would have really, really limited distribution. Not that that would matter as no one from this town will buy it anyway – support local music? Ha. But hey it should get some good publicity for all involved right after lethally litigious Lars Ulrich catches wind of this intellectual property stealing effrontery and sue’s Tauranga Music Sux boney ass right into the ground. And after publicising all these bands at his own expense T.M.S will be free, he will have done this town of Tauranga and the musicians within it a great service, he will have made them proud to be local, he will have made up for his earlier infractions, his conscience will be clear, he will have done good. Here on, free from his all consuming hate he will be able to take the tens of dollars in ‘Deride the Shite-Scene’cd sales profits netted from the hard work of the stupidly gullible rube musicians who didn’t even think to ask for a contract or a royalty point percentage because they play not for the cash or the kudos but because they ‘love music’ so much and buy a mega ghost mansion near the beach where he can now devote himself and all his future time to Swayze in Ghost apparition air fucking of that hillbilly cunt bitch for killing him rather than thrilling him, his other hobby; flag pole sitting and writing his new Zine ‘Hitler or Chaplin who did the half-stache better?’.

Fuck you all…..


  1. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

  2. TMS this is all good-keep up the great work.

  3. Lovely, eloquent, though either there's chemical ingestion involved or you have an uncommon psychological profile. Any time you'd like spelling and grammar assistance I'm here for you, in Tauranga.

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