Archive for mike adams

Booksellers currently selling Toilet Bowl Soup: The Holy Sh*t

Posted in books, Redneck Tales, Souptanic, Southern Indiana, Toilet Bowl Soup with tags , , , , , on September 20, 2011 by MIKE ADAMS

Here are a few booksellers currently stocking my new book, Toilet Bowl Soup: The Holy Sh*t. The book is now available internationally through Amazon. So if you live outside of the United States, you should probably try them first.

Scalping concert tickets for beer and cocaine

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on September 20, 2011 by MIKE ADAMS

Mike Adams – Frequently Asked Questions

Posted in Beer, books, Drug Culture, Indiana, Southern Indiana with tags , , , on July 31, 2011 by MIKE ADAMS
Mike Adams at the Mackey Tavern

Mike Adams at the Mackey Tavern

FAQ – Check below for answers to common questions.

Q: What happened to your book, Toilet Bowl Soup: Redneck Tales from the Armpit of America? I can’t find it anywhere.

A: That book is no longer in print. There is a possibility that we will be releasing a new edition of it later this year.

Q: How can I find out if you’re going to be doing any book signings or appearances?

A: Any book signings or other events will be posted on my Facebook page.

Q: Do you teach any courses or seminars?

A: No. Any seminar that I am likely to give on the subject of writing would likely last about five minutes. I would probably say something like “First thing, there isn’t a single goddamn person in this room who can write worth a damn…including myself. So, just accept the fact that all us suck. Now, if you’re still willing to die for it even though you, as well as the shit you write, are vomit then you’ve got just as much of a chance to sell a book as the rest of the hacks out there…Later.”

Q: Have any of the stories in Toilet Bowl Soup been considered for movies?

A: Not really. There were some things being thrown around by some of the other filmmakers working on the set of Steve Balderson’s film “Watch Out”, but as with most things like that they very seldom come to pass. It’s not their fault, but so many films do not get made because it is extremely hard to find the financial support needed to see one from start to finish. I have been writing the screenplay for Toilet Bowl Soup, but it’s not one of my highest priorities.

Q: What are your 5 favorite books and why?

A: If you’re reading everyone else’s shit, you’re not writing your own.

Q: Favorite films?

A: I have a tendency to watch films in the very same way that I listen to music. Some people use film and music to change or alter their mood. I believe I use both of them to enhance my current mood or emotional state. My favorite films would include “Wild at Heart” by David Lynch, “A Clockwork Orange” by Stanley Kubrick, “Natural Born Killers” by Oliver Stone, “The Big Lebowski” by The Cohen Brothers, “What Dreams May Come” by Vincent Ward, “Firecracker” by Steve Balderson, “The Darjeeling Limited” by Wes Anderson. Really there are so many I couldn’t possibly name them all. I can tell you that I have enjoyed nearly every film by Woody Allen, David Lynch, and Stanley Kubrick.

Q: Favorite music?

A: I’m a music snob. Most new music makes me fucking puke. I like my metal heavy. I like Mike Patton; some of my favorite bands of his being Faith No More, Fantomas, and Mr. Bungle. I never grow tired of listening to The Doors, Pink Floyd, Blind Melon (Shannon Hoon forever!) Pantera, Hank Williams Jr., Down… Once again depending on my mood I’ll listen to everything from Frank Sinatra to Richard Wagner.

Q: Why did you become a writer?

A: I’m still trying to figure out the answer to that question myself. I don’t think we become writers. The shit we write either appeals to someone or it doesn’t. I might decide to become an auto mechanic tomorrow, even though I don’t know a goddamn thing about the trade. Sound ludicrous? It’s really the same thing.

Q: What is your favorite beer?

A: I used to be a die hard Busch Light drinker…But the fucking Belgians changed something with the recipe. So these days I’m a Coors Light man.

Q: Where do you get your ideas?

A: From my life… I’m not the type of guy who attempts to write about shit I haven’t lived or at least experienced in one way or another. A true storyteller should never have to wonder where his or her next idea is coming from…your ideas should stare you in the face every time you look in the mirror.

Q: Do you accept story ideas?

A: There is no way in hell I would ever consider using another person’s story idea. Do yourself a favor and keep your great story ideas to yourself, and then write the damn thing yourself. Don’t submit your ideas to anybody. Just asking someone you don’t have that type of relationship with to consider using your idea comes across very needy and pathetic, and nobody is going to give a second look at a potential writer who isn’t willing to “go for it” without seeking out a goddamn cosigner from someone who is. And “No”, I don’t want to read or give my opinion on your poetry or short story. My opinion doesn’t matter.

Q: What are your thoughts on censorship and book banning?

A: In my opinion, the attempts made by certain organizations to censor and ban literature only secures a books place on a wall of infamy. Censorship doesn’t scare me. There are much more frightening elements of the publishing industry to be concerned about.

Q: What authors do you despise the most and which one of them, if any, would you start a fist fight with if you got the opportunity?

A: Ha! What a great question. You know, from time to time I take a look at the New York Times Bestseller list just to see if there are any writers out there who are really writing anything worth a damn. Needless to say I am never impressed with what I see; I’m even less impressed with the lack of balls behind most of these bestselling degenerates. I guess I don’t care enough about these people to technically despise them personally as much as I do their styles of writing. BUT, I most recently made an attempt to swallow an excerpt from “The Brass Verdict” by some jackass named Michael Connelly, and it was so damn putrid that I nearly jumped in my car bound for Florida just to have a Corona on the beach before assassinating that piece of shit.

Q: Can you give me some writing tips?

A: Sure. The best tip that I can give any aspiring writer is to simply not do it. Everything about the publishing business is absolute lunacy at best. Do yourself a favor and get a degree in criminal law instead. There is never going to be any shortage of people in desperate need of a solid bare-knuckle attorney. Do that and you’ll achieve the best kind of writing…signing many checks.

Q: Are Mike Adams’ books available in other languages?

A: No. Man, I’ve just barely bullshit my way through the English language now… Seriously, I would like to eventually see Toilet Bowl Soup translated & published making it more available to European countries and abroad. It is really all just a matter of timing.

Q: How can I get a personalized and/or autographed copy of one of Mike Adams’ books?

A: For a while I tried to keep some books in stock here at the house for those who inquired about autographed copies. I was responsible for sending those out personally. I soon learned that I was unable to handle that type of arrangement. There were times when I’d leave home to tour & by the time I got back I was faced with the unpleasant duty of answering a bunch of angry emails from people who were ready to hang me from a high tree! So long story short, I do not do that anymore. Your best bet is to catch me at a book signing or even in some dive bar or a fucking Wal-Mart. I’m always happy to meet new people who have in some strange way found an appreciation for what I do. I will sign your books until I am rendered completely retarded; I just cannot be responsible for doing it from my home base. Sorry.

Amputee Junky: Meet Missy Beal!

Posted in Amputee, Beer, books, Drug Culture, Indiana, Indiana Bullwhip, Junkies, Methamphetamines, Redneck Tales, Southern Indiana, Toilet Bowl Soup, Wild Animals with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 26, 2011 by MIKE ADAMS

We were all having the time of our lives until someone dared me to snort the crank off of the amputee‟s nub. Until then I had done my best to avoid any and all contact with this cracked out trailer park serpent that seemed to follow me around the room without actually having to move. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t make eye contact – yet I kept on trying for fear she would recognize my behavior, become unnerved and pounce on me like el Chupacabra. To fear her from a distance was hard enough without speculation that a blinding fit of rage from this girl could cause me to blackout and swallow my tongue. For a moment I considered walking straight up to the person responsible for inviting this spectacle and pounding their kidneys into the deepest shade of purple.

“Adams, there is only one-way off of this bus” I thought to myself, trying to focus more on the voice inside of my head rather than the deafening music also appearing resonate within my skull. “ Listen, just stand up and lay down a furious beating on the backbone of a couple of these tweekers. That is if you want any control. After a blast like that, you‟ll be able to demand the amputee either be removed or locked in the basement until you‟re ready to leave.” There was a part of me that really believed this spontaneous flurry of violence would do the trick. The other part of me was far too distracted by the paranoid geekers pacing the floor like the marching gestapo, frequently calling out for a sphygmomanometer and the number to nine, one, one.

About an hour had past seeming like only a few minutes. I noticed the room was starting to settle into its own. It wasn‟t that any of us were on our way down. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Most of the die hards in the room not only knew the weight of the road that we had decided to travel, but were also very good friends with the driver, the cooker, the chemist… the man. The average Southern Indiana cooker sells his shit backed with at least a two hit/three day spun-out-of-your-mind guarantee while the real madmen sell it clean enough to stop the heart of a well bread horse. This was common knowledge for those of us who had climbed the ranks from weekend user to full-blown junky. The beginners always snorted it; those of us who wanted it quicker held it to a flame while the extraordinary used needles to chisel their tombstones. No matter the point of entry, it would be days before any of us would consider rest. Although throughout the years of watching speed hounds like myself, I could see the room was not far from an atmosphere of grandeur combined with cigarette smoke and incessant chatter of grand schemes that would never see the sober light of day.

I opened a bottle of beer I had managed to catch from some guy who randomly tossed them into the living room every time he got one for himself. I took a sip and set the bottle down near the edge of the couch, noticing my left bootlace had become untied for absolutely no reason at all. While messing around with the boot, I considered the possibility of there being a small animal underneath the couch with an over zealous lust for black shoelaces. “This makes the third time tonight” I thought to myself, feeling underneath for anything that might help me understand why. There was nothing within reach that could explain it. I thought about how I could catch the culprit in the act by staring down at my boots long enough to stomp it dead once it returned.

“Is there a ferret in the house?” I asked with both eyes focused on the floor preparing for the worst. I don‟t remember ever hearing anyone answer me. All I heard was an unknown voice belting out from the sidelines, “Hey Adams, I’ll give you five bucks to snort some of this shit off Missy’s nub!” The unexpected shouting startled me sending a rapid shot of adrenalin into my heart popping me up like a jack in the box. My face cringed in utter disbelief and embarrassment as I attempted to draw some conclusion as to which one of the scrawny yuppies across the room I was going to kill. At this point a target would be extremely hard to determine. The entire room erupted into a certain type of hysteria that one might come to expect from inside a padded cell – Even Missy, the one armed junkie, was gasping for air and gripping her gut. I was the only one in the room who wasn‟t laughing. I felt like I was about to be eaten by an angry mob of starved circus seals barking and lunging at me for the last biscuit. It was then that I realized how much trouble I was about to endure. The amputee with her impetigo grin rose up slowly and headed towards me. I felt my right ear turn red, heating up one side of my face, forcing me to believe that I was having a stroke.

Everyone in the room was now cheering as if in a Roman coliseum, watching the release of a hungry lion. I stood up and took a few steps to the left while trying to determine how to make it stop. The guffaw of wild hyenas, raucous and mean, had officially taken over. “You’re only making it worse!” I shouted as the amputee came after me at full force. “Lady, come on now!” I yelled, darting into the next room and down the hall. I fled at high-speed dirt, but she tailed with such a rabid disposition that it was clear just how determined she actually was. “Get this mongrel away from me!” I cried out in desperation hoping that someone would show a little mercy and stick a shotgun slug into the back of my head, but when I turned to look over my shoulder all I could see was Missy, untamed and violent, shaking her nub at me as if trying to get something off of it. It was frightening. I could smell the arm. It wreaked of ace bandage and generic oatmeal. There was no way in hell that I would surrender this fight and succumb to this madcap cripple’s nub.

The amputee scared me beyond any fear. She was as short as she was round and spoke with a lisp that some had said was caused by accidentally biting off part of her tongue giving out blowjobs for dope. The state had placed her children into foster care months ago because one of them tested positive for methamphetamines during a welfare checkup. She was a friend of a friend of somebody‟s cousin who hung around with friends of mine. She was an ornament of terror – everyone simply tolerated her presence because no one seemed to have the guts to tell her she wasn‟t welcome. Some even feared she was a rat working to assist the cops in busting the local dope manufactures as a means to get her kids back quicker. In a garbage can full of junkies, jobless stoners, and maybe even a suspected pedophile, Missy was the rotten banana stuffed inside of an old corpse buried deep at the bottom.

Without much time to think or breathe I ducted into an open bedroom and jumped on top of the bed turning to face the monster as she stormed in after me. “Stay back godamnit!” I shouted doing my best to keep a safe distance. “I’m not snorting anything off that arm of yours.” I was holding a pillow in front of me franticly examining the room for a bullwhip. Missy would not speak. The only sound she made was a horrendous laugh followed by a snorting sound as she lunged at me from the floor. In an attempt to fend her off, I brutally swung the pillow with both hands from left to right hoping she would grow tired and give up on me as easily as she did on life. I could still hear the others roaring at the highest imaginable volume and I was now convinced that if I was going to get out of this unscathed, I was going to have to handle it on my own. I took a step back that must have looked as if I was winding up for a fastball, and I delivered a solid crack with the pillow against the side of her head, knocking her to the floor. I thought about jumping on top of Missy‟s head with both boots and caving in her skull, but decided it was for the best to just get out.

I was once again in the hall screaming “If one of you motherfuckers don’t get this crazy bitch away from me I‟m going to set this whole goddamned house on fire!” It wasn‟t long after my escape before Missy was in pursuit again. I felt like I was going to be sick. I was out of breath, out of patience and thought my next move might be to turn around and beat the amputee unconscious. I spun around committed with my fist doubled up preparing to throw both arms out of socket beating this hog into a coma. Missy was coming at me fast. “Just one solid blow to the temple and she‟ll be done for” I thought to myself. “Just one vicious blow.” Missy had gotten just about as close to me as she was going to get before running the risk of being put down, but a piercing screech from behind the bathroom door stopped all of us dead in our tracks. The door flung open, and out come this lanky hick that someone had called Sherm screaming something about an “Indiana Bullwhip.”

The riot between Missy and me had lost its momentum now that everyone‟s attention had shifted to the maniac running at top speed from the shitter. I couldn‟t remember Sherm ever being in the house, much less the bathroom where he must have been locked away for thirty minutes or more. Now he was out and running, swinging a tube sock around like some strange Japanese Manrikigusari. There was no way of knowing that Sherm had gone completely berzerk other than by the pitch of his war cry as he sprint across the floor towards the crowd. Some thought they were about to be killed, and began diving to the floor without valor, taking cover as if in a grade school tornado drill. I was confused but still sharp enough to react and get away before Sherm smashed the sock across the amputees face sending her to the floor. I watched as he thrashed the amputee unmercifully, leaving the contents of the sock and a horrible stench behind. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I yelled over the top of the other screams and cries of disgust amplifying throughout the house. I couldn‟t believe my eyes. The only thing I was willing to trust was my nose and it was telling me that some dumb hick just horse slapped an amputee with a tube sock full of shit! Everyone was running for the door, even the owner of the house. Nobody knew who was going to be next to make contact with Sherm‟s “Indiana Bullwhip,” and no one was taking any chances.

Strangely enough, I didn‟t budge. I was frozen and amazed. That lanky bastard had just executed one of the most diabolical feats of sheer insanity that had ever been performed. Sherm was down on all fours across from the amputee pointing and laughing with the grimace of a rabid animal infected with mange. Missy was in a frenzy flopping around on the floor trying to get the bullwhip bomb out of her eyes and off of her lips. Her cries were so loud that I got the impression she must have been in excruciating pain. The intensity of her actions ravaged her ability to properly communicate, worsening her lisp, rendering most of everything she yelled beyond comprehension. I only understood her when she said “you son of a bitch” and “in my mouth” because that was how she ended most of her exclamations, heavily emphasizing each word every single time. But no matter how loud she screamed, her spit just didn‟t go the same distance as her grim flailing about the room. She looked like a tortured fish. I caught myself thinking, “How many times in my thirty-three years have I bared witness to some redneck imbecile wailing on a great American reject with a tube sock full of dung?” “And whose sock was that anyway?” I took a quick look at Sherm‟s feet and he still appeared to have both of his socks and shoes on. But then I thought, “why am I still here?” I was the third wheel in a crap match between a junky amputee and a hick who had obviously sunken into the early stages of syphilis. I noticed that the music that had been rattling around in my head was no longer there. Now I felt like a sicko, as the last witness to one of the few violent bowel movements involving two people. The laughter had begun to die out and, from where I was standing, that which appeared to be over had only just begun.

I finished the beer I had left sitting beside the couch but not before examining it for remnants of bullwhip shit. I thought about how Sherm got the shit into the sock. “Did he pick it up and put it in to the sock?” “Did he actually hold the opening of the sock up to his ass and squeeze a load into it?” “Why?” I tossed the empty bottle on the couch walking past Missy and Sherm on the way out. “Missy” I said. “That‟s what you get for acting like a fucking animal”. I looked down at her lying on the floor. She was too emotional to even look at me, much less reply – so I left. There was a part of me that felt sorry for her, even after she chased me down. I was thankful Sherm did what he did. Otherwise I might have snapped into pieces and killed her.

When I stepped outside everyone was looking on in horror. The man that owned the house was stuck inside a livid rant about beating the hell out of Sherm as soon as he came outside. I warned them that it was best to not go in there for a while. It was just too weird. Then I left.

A few days later I spotted Sherm and Missy drinking together at the tavern. We made brief eye contact, but never said a word. “Brilliant” I thought. “Shit covered amputee meets snaggle tooth redneck.” It didn’t surprise me. Although I was somewhat curious as to how their union transpired, I simply didn‟t have the stomach to ask. After the waitress brought me a beer, I sat there drinking with confidence and pondering my supposed epitaph. Here lies Mike Adams. A man who vowed never to snort anything off of a stump that used to wiggle and hold shit. A relentless soul existing all of his days without sexing up anything covered in toilet bowl soup.

THIS STORY IS FROM THE BOOK, TOILET BOWL SOUP: THE HOLY SH*T. CLICK HERE FOR MORE ABOUT THIS BOOK.