From the
Fishheaditor-in-Chief



Written by Mick McGrath & Brian Hendrickson

We got kicked out of Waldenbooks in Carmel. A-man called to complain to the bookstore's manager that his son had picked up a copy of the January/ February issue of Fishheads there. His complaints with Fishheads were three: our logo is a parody of the Christian fish symbol; the word "demonic" appeared on the cover of the magazine, and the article on page 4 included a mock TIME cover featuring a cartoon penis as Organ of the Year. Guilty on counts two and three, innocent on count one. Although we are not above poking fun at people who worship icons (New from PopeCo: The Weeping Madonna Lawn Sprinkler! Every time you water your lawn, it's a miracle! Also available, the Bleeding Stigmata Ketchup Dispenser!), our logo is not a parody of the Christian fish symbol.

At about the same time that Waldenbooks was showing its moxie by capitulating to a single customer complaint, the people at Apple Press got a letter from a woman named Denise. Denise wrote to say that because Apple Press advertised in the January/February issue of Fishheads she "will never do business with Apple Press again!"

According to Denise, "The front of (Fishheads) looked like a page from a coloring book which would appeal to a small child." The cover of the January/February issue, The Sick and Twisted Issue, showed a baby barfing up its intestines. "Upon further inspection of this tab, I was appauled (sic) at the sub-banner." Here is the sub-banner. "A subsidiary of a large demonic corporation, and loving it!" It's a joke, albeit not a very good one. "This vulgar publication," Denise continues, "camoufloages (sic) a grotesque message and packages it into a cartoon gimmick that is easily sneaked by parents into the innocent hands of children."

I don't think Denise meant to say that parents are sneaking Fishheads into the innocent hands of their own children. I think what she is trying to say is that there is a highly coordinated conspiracy at work involving agents of Satan who pose as small children in order to sneak past adults and hand out Fishheads to toddlers, which is not wholly improbable in the same way that it is not wholly improbable that RuPaul will have another hit.

"Perhaps you don't care whether children grow up with a sense of values today," Denise asserts, "but as a board member of a large youth organization, I do. There are many children in my community, my church and my family that deserve that chance at decency." Again giving Denise the benefit of the doubt, I don't think she meant to say that many, but not all, of the children in her family deserve a chance at decency.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Denise doesn't care whether all children grow up with a sense of values today- But as an editor and publisher of a vulgar publication that camouflages a grotesque message and packages it into a cartoon gimmick that is easily sneaked by puppies into the illegitimate hams of Chile, I do.

To say Denise is confused is an understatement. She sent the same letter to another of our advertisers, Borders Bookshop (which is not a restaurant), with the addendum that she would never eat there. She also sent a copy of the letter to a business called Digital Dimensions, whose owner had never even heard of Fishheads let alone advertised with us.

In the end, Denise will calm down. The father from Carmel will continue to be ever vigilant, much like that one minister who claims Barney the Dinosaur is the antichrist. And Waldenbooks will be known as the family-friendly store, where the latest issues of Penthouse Forum are kept way up high where little hands can't reach them.


- Mick


One good thing about Indianapolis in the summertime is no Druze militiamen. Actually, Indianapolis is pretty much Druze-free year-round. But there was a time when "Druze militiamen" was as common a phrase as "rebel warlord" and "Serbian forces." Or "television evangelist" and "federal indictment."

Back in the early '80s, when John Travolta had a career, Dan Rather regularly started his broadcast with the latest news from the Mideast: "Fighting erupted today in war-torn Beirut as Druze militiamen and Christian forces shelled the living shit out of each other because that's their job." I have no idea what happened to all those Druze militiamen. I have no idea why I've been thinking about them. One possible explanation: I am legally insane.

I do know that Druze Militiamen would be a pretty good name for a Seattle band. Or you could just string unrelated words together, like Mother Love Bone, or Cum-Belching Road Whores, or Dog Head Butt Chow. Whatever you name your band, remember it is very important that at least one member of the group be a heroin addict. Otherwise you're just a bunch of dilettantes. Come to think of it, The Dilettantes would be a good name for a Seattle band; very knowing, very ironic. With a name like that, though, the whole group would have to shoot up on stage.

People of ten ask us, "What kind of people read Fishheads?" Our best guess is that the average Fishheads reader has at some point in his or her life had a car accidently back over his or her head. We emphasize accidently to distinguish our readers from Soldier of Fortune subscribers.

If a car does back over your head, accidently or otherwise, rest assured your recovery at Methodist Hospital will not be hampered by a chance encounter with Fishheads. I know because I got a phone call informing me of this.

Hospital administrator: "Hello, is this Fishheads magazine?"
Me: "Yes."
Hospital administrator: 'We found some copies of your magazine in one of our staff rooms. Do you know who put them there?"
Me: "Cum-belching road whores?"
Hospital administrator: 'Well, I was calling to inform you that this is definitely not the kind of publication we want distributed here."
Me: "Dog head butt chow."
Hospital administrator: "Click."

- Mick
On the Methodist Hospital shit list


Ours is a truly remarkable age.

'Me rate of our technological progress has been accelerated to an unprecedented degree in the entirety of human history. Our world and cultures have been irrevocably dianged due to advances in computers, telecommunications, transportation, medicine, and, at long last, spray hair.

You may have seen the "Amazing Discoveries" infomercial for this dazzling now product. A balding audience "oohs" and "ahhs" in amazement as the host and product inventor blast away at volunteers' bald spots with cans of spray paint. The mere change of scalp color from a shiny pink to dull brown or black is enough to convince the audience members that these people are no longer bald. They still seem convinced even when Earl Scheib wanders onstage and spraypaints satanic symbols on random craniums in metallic flake green enamel. Later the host further mystifies the audience with a game of "Got Your Nose."

Frankly, and speaking as a member of the ever-expanding forehead club, only a dead weasel secured to my head with rusty boathooks could look less like real hair. I would sooner use Cheez Whiz, thank you.

Of course, skull graffiti is only one option for today's follicle-deficient individual. We now have the advantage of the Hair Club for Men's "polyfuse method." This is when the top layers of skin are removed from the posterior of a baboon donor and surgically attached to your head. Not only is this method unpopular with animal rights activists, but during mating season the baboon skin graft swells and turns bright red. This makes your head resemble nothing so much as a giant boil with eyes and teeth.

A less sophisticated surgical technique is the hair transplant, wherein the "doctor" removes dumps of hair from your non-balding areas with a melon baller, digs holes in your bald areas with a miniature post-hole digger, and places the hairy melon balls in the post holes. The method has the obvious disadvantages of making your bald areas look like a bloody rice paddy and your non-bald areas look as if you'd been putting out cigars against the side of your head.

Another amazing discovery are the chemicals which do not actually make new hair grow, but make the remaining hairs in the thinning areas grow fatter. This is a truly marvelous idea. Your head no longer appears bald, it's just swarming with caterpillars.

Surely, new products and techniques are in the works. There are megabucks to be made in finding a "cure" for male pattern baldness. Truth is, though, we really don't want one. Consider: male pattern baldness is caused by an excessive amount of testosterone, the male sex hormone. This is the same hormone responsible for the growth and development of, uh, other male attributes. Thus, a shiny pate is most likely a sign of ..., well, you may draw your own conclusions.

Still there will be those pathetic weenies who will succumb to society's fickle notion of attractiveness, They will sacrifice money and dignity in the pursuit of a fuzzy skullcap. To these individuals we can extend sympathy if not respect. The rest of us bald guys, however, will stand together. That blinding glare is actuallv the light of solidarity.


-Brian


I fell in love the other day.

She was a vision of ancient beauty in a blue floral print coat, plastic rain bonnet, and horn-rimmed glasses with little sparkles on them. I estimated her age to predate the industrial revolution. I met this lovely little crone at one of our local drugstores here in Indy. She had just paid for her bag of geezer goodies and was trundling towards the door. After paying for my own purchases, I found myself behind her. Her sloth-like pace gave me plenty of time to catch up. Near the door, she stooped to look at something on the magazine rack. A box of Kleenex fell out of her bag. "Let me get that for you, ma'am," I said, ever the gentleman. I picked up the box and handed it back to her.

She gave me one of those looks normally reserved for someone who'd just stomped a favorite kitten to death. She snatched the Kleenex box out of my hand and shoved it angrily back into her bag. "So what do you want," she snarled, "a goddamn modal?"

I stood there in stunned awe as she stalked out the door. Then I started giggling uncontrollably. I was giddy from the magic of the moment. After a while I noticed the other store patrons were staring at me nervously I guess laughing while standing alone gives others doubts about your mental stability. I rushed out the door, hoping to find my wizened soul-mate. I wanted to help her across the street and perhaps get a nice solid kick in the butt in return. It was too late, however. She had vanished, funny smell and all.

With this incident in mind, I began to reflect on what we refer to as "common courtesy" There is a set of socially acceptable responses to any random act of kindness. When someone holds open a door for you, you are supposed to say "Thank you, sir" not " Blow me, shithead." The former is the expected response. The latter is likely to get you hospitalized. Yet why should this be so? After all, no one asked that person to hold the door for you. He took it upon himself to do you a good deed. Wh)O To reaffirm his image of himself as a kind and good person. Furthermore, you are expected to heap praises upon him for his saintly deed, thus elevating his self-worth to an even greater degree. If you deny him this praise you are condemned for not participating in his Norman Vincent Peale-inspired emotional blackmail. Polite people are insecure parasites.

Courtesy and manners are a ruse. They are intended to disguise true motivations. An "Excuse me, ma'am" certainly sounds nicer than "Get out of my way you old hag," but which more accurately expresses your impatience at the blue-haired old biddy blocking your aisle at the grocery store as she debates for the umpteenth time whether or not she wants the box of Little Friskies or Meow Mix for her 27 cats?

Rude obnoxious behavior is at least honest behavior, however disgusting. Try sitting with my family during Thanksgiving dinner to see what I mean.There is nothing you can say to provoke anger when everyone expects you to act like a jerk. What a wonderful world it would be if more people felt that way Imagine the world's nations telling each other to go screw themselves, but rather than starting to shoot each other over these insults, everyone gets a good laugh out of it. Openly expressed hostility would be met by indifference, not offense. You might say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. So up yours.


-Brian