Kill Bill, Vol. 2 this weekend at the movies. Please support DeAnn's patriotic Harvey Weinstein boycott by refusing to purchase any bare-bones editions of this future contender for Star Wars greatness. Speaking of Harvey, I'm sure his bathroom door is locked this weekend after Kill Bill, Vol. 1's sales burst.

Don't know what to say about The Punisher. It was always one of those rags my buddy Aaron always tried to get me to read when we were kids. This was back in the mid-to-late-1980s, when, thanks to the successful Platoon and its Hamburger Hill spawn, literally every character in Stan Lee's blessed Marvel canon became a Vietnam War vet with psychological issues. Hell, they even launched a comic-book series called The Nam (also known as The Shit), where readers who weren't thrown by its almost cartoonish drawing style, learned all about sucking chest wounds and sucking in general. Rest assured my love affair with comics was short-lived; I was back to Mort Drucker and Mad magazine in no time.

Reading Helter Skelter I'd forgotten just how flat-out wacky Manson's interpretation of The Beatles' White Album was--lotta stretching involved there and not enough Tae Bo (could you imagine Squeaky Fromme's Aerobics?). I've decided that The Flaming Lips' Soft Bulletin record is actually a wake-up call for the rebirth of the Nazi party, a rallying cry that only I may heed. The title itself is a harsh indictment of the master race's slothful, ambivalent nature (soft), with the word "bulletin" representing either the record as a dossier--or "bulletin" being a combination of "bullet" and "in," as in "I put a bullet in some lip-flapping pig. Helter Skelter's coming down fast!" I haven't quite decided which interpretation is true--whichever scores me the most looped, hot, easily impressionable hippie chicks. Then you got the songs, right? "Waiting For Superman." Obviously, the song's directed at me. "Cory," Wayne is saying, "we need you to lead us." Either that or he's saying, "Cory, could you return that copy of Action Comics #65 I loaned to you back in '97?" But I ruled that out because it involves common courtesy, not the offing of pigs. "Feeling Yourself Disintegrate" is the triumphant anthem of our New World Order, which we'll warble annually in beer halls while toasting the successful destruction of the prior ruling class. Of course, "The Gash," with its accusatory lyrics ("Is that gash/in your leg/really why/you must stop/'Cause I've noticed/all the others/though they're gashed/they're still going"), condemns all who would oppose me, or who would dare surrender in the heat of battle. There's no room for pussies in Zaireeka Nation.