Panto season must be upon us, as formerly-relevant perplexing poltroon and peddler of pretend-angst Brian Hugh Warner has once again unveiled his Halloween-night-Lily-Savage alter-ego ‘Marilyn Manson’ in an unsuccessful attempt to outrage/impress anyone who still gives two hoots during a boozy night out in Las Vegas.

The vain attempt to appear partially interesting involved Brian going out on the lash in the Born And Raised bar in suburban Vegas – basically a provincial Yates’s from what we can gather. This was after, we assume, getting turned-away from any ‘real’ bars on the Strip all of whom have a strict “no wankers” policy. Luckily Brian managed to make himself look like the utter weapon he is.

Highlights of the evening, courtesy of the man determined to turn his previously imagined reputation of ‘controversial’ into that of stone-cold-fact ‘tiresome’, include:

• Drinking absinthe, because Baudelaire did so it’s, like, totally cool, cultured and ‘out-there’. Like the kerr-razy dude he is. On-lookers shrugged, we imagine. Not remembering he unsuccessfully launched his own brand of ‘Mansinthe’ in 2008 (REALLY), which was variously described as being “as bad as piss” (True).
• Manning the karaoke machine and singing ‘Cry Me A River’ by Justin Timberlake. SIX bloody TIMES IN A ROW LIKE SOME SORT OF WOMAN WITH EMOTIONS AND THINGS.
• Getting into the wrong limousine at the end of the night and getting hoyed-out of it – basically the equivalent of unsuccessfully trying to jump somebody else’s taxi, a ritual we are all familiar with.
• Ostentatiously brandishing a knife while awaiting the arrival of his own taxi/limo.

The latter is- of course- forgivable if one is a fifteen-year old wannabe hard-man trying to impress your mates after your first proper belly-full of Diamond White. You know, whilst ‘having it large’ in your local graveyard after everyone has told their parents they are spending the evening round each others’ houses? It’s pretty wearying if you are a 42-year old man named Brian.

It is widely reported (by us) that Brian tried to justify this wholly underwhelming spectacle by saying “Sorry I went nuts, but I’m a rock star!” to anyone listening.

His ‘rock star’ allegation was made despite all evidence to the contrary including, but not limited to – no major label contract, no album out in recent memory, not being Trent Reznor, no tour that anyone can remember and even his target audience of adolescent emo kids finding him a bit embarrassing.

Rumours that Brian Hugh Warner currently resides in his mother’s box-room and has been getting grief for stealing her concealer are unconfirmed at time of publication.

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Hey you! We assume you’re straight! Why? That’s because we’re the product of a society steeped in the preposterous hocus of religion and, as well you know, religion don’t like the gays. Why? Because they make more money out of straight couples with their christenings and such.

Idiots. As such, when someone says “I’m not straight”, the world goes into meltdown! How can someone be Not Straight?! What would God think?

Mercifully, god doesn’t exist, which means, all you bozos leading a life of solely staring at the opposite sex are missing out on all the fun that actress Evan Rachel Wood has just revealed she can have. That’s because she’s bisexual, which means she can have sex with absolutely anyone she pleases, provided they’re of legal age and not asleep.

That’s right kiddies! The star of The Wrestler, who previously stepped-out with panto rock villain Marilyn Manson, said that she’s quite happy to have sex with women or men.

Asked about this, she chirruped:

“Yes! I’m into anything… meet a nice guy, meet a nice girl…”

Seeing as she’s attractive and wealthy, she might *GASP* have both at the same time! People do that y’know! They do. It isn’t all stifled yawns, gently rocking into each others pubis regions and hoping that no-one hears you through the walls. Some people actually have a really fun time with whomever they fancy enough to derobe in front of.

Wood announced this non-news on the back of her True Blood co-star, Anna Paquin, who said she was bisexual.

So there you have it.

Some people aren’t straight. Isn’t that astonishing? Leave the clergy to tut and wag fingers while they repeatedly get caught with their trousers down around young children or help grease the gears of war.

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Un-shocking ‘shock-rocker’ and massively uncontroversial ‘controversial artist’ Brain Hugh Warner is due to make a comeback next year, once again posing as unconvincing pantomime dame ‘Marilyn Manson’.

The entire world probably shrugged at the news, secure in the knowledge that you can’t create moral panic if you haven’t had a record deal in over a year. He was dropped from Interscope.

Christ, even the emo kids who hang around your local park drinking cider don’t know who he is anymore.

The tween-generation Alice Cooper is thought to have spent the last year standing by his front-door in full ‘Marilyn Manson’ regalia waiting for trick-or-treaters to knock whilst practising his best impression of Jack Nicholson’s “wait till they get a load of ME” scene from Batman in the mirror.

But now he’s BACK. And badder than ever.

If by ‘back’ you mean ‘has scraped a deal with a small independent London record label’. And if by ‘badder than ever’ you mean ‘only an option on a second album as nobody’s that confident in him’.

Cooking Vinyl – for that is them – were formed as a contemporary folk label and are clearly not filled with optimism.

Perhaps the market for below-par sub- Nine Inch Nails nonsense that sounds like it was made by a middle-class suburban teenager with no friends because he smells ‘weird’ trying too hard to come across as ‘on the edge’ is on the wane.

Cooking Vinyl’s MD Martin Goldschmidt has said that

“Manson’s in that mood where he really wants to come back fighting.”

Although we assume in this case the definition of ‘coming back fighting’ involves not tidying your bedroom and smoking low-quality weed in your Dad’s garage.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Welcome, hecklerspray devotees – and those unfortunates who have stumbled in while searching for information on New Kids On The Block/menopause symptoms – to a shiny new, weekly look at what aural filth the major record labels are going to be flinging at us in the coming week.

In typically amateurish ‘spray fashion, of course, this inaugural Monday feature is actually appearing on a Tuesday.

We so bad.

If each piece of music ever written were a thought, then obviously Mozart‘s Concerto in C for Piano, No. 8, Lutzow‘ would be: “How much longer til this posh bird lets me touch her boobies, I am so sick of this shit“. Freebird, by Lynnyrd Skynnyrd, would undoubtedly be: “Man, Skynnyrd rock so hard, my whole Goddamn truck is rattlin’. Hmmm, wonder if the chick with the Aerosmith bandanna and Confederate flag tattoo would let me touch her titties?”

And anything ever written, sung, or listened to by Ronan Keating? Why, of course: “Kittens. Tiny little fluffy kittens. With socks on. Tiny little fluffy kittens with tiny little woollen socks on and they’re… ooh, maybe that guy in the sleeveless t-shirt and backless chaps would let me touch his winkie?‘

We have three pieces of aural newies this week, each of which we have chosen to represent as a thought. For some reason.

Firstly: Island Records Folk Box Set – Meet On The Ledge, Various Artists, Album

Well, if this one doesn’t float your boat, then you’re obviously not setting sail for the New World in a ship made of wattle and beards, afloat on an ocean of real ale. So, well done you. Set to be played endlessly at parties you wouldn’t want to be at, which smell of armpits and sustainably produced  EnviroTofu, and are populated by people you wouldn’t leave your children alone with, being held in a… okay, it’s not our thing.

If you like it, that’s your problem, suffice it to say that it’s available now and that ‘People Who Bought This…’ probably also bought a book called Weaving Your Own Clothes From Twigs And Rizlas By Lucien Nettlewhistle. This record is represented by the thought:

“Oh look, this craft fair has a stall demonstrating how to make delicious Tofu and wildberry smoothies.”

Secondly: High End Of Low, Marilyn Manson, Album

Shock-rockin’, pale-faced, lady-man jizzsock Manson returns with a vengeance. Grrrr.

Songs such as Arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon (do you see how neatly he sums up the world’s feelings of impending apocalypse and certain death for us all? Please buy the Deluxe album version) seem likely to become the summer’s soundtrack for fifteen year old boys and dangerously unmedicated sociopathic men everywhere. This record is represented by the thought:

“Damn, I hate people. All of them, always downing on me, won’t let me be myself. WTF’s that all about? Wonder what mum’s making for tea tonight?”

Thirdly: Flight 666: Original Soundtrack, Iron Maiden, Album

Unkillable British beasts of metal, Iron Maiden, deliver unto us (and by ‘us’, we mean 38-year-old men with too much blue denim and not enough hair) their 849th album. This is the soundtrack to a concurrently-released documentary following them on their recent world tour. In true Maiden style, the album is released in approximately 1000 formats, including: ‘double CD in jewelcase with 16 page colour booklet‘; ‘limited edition double picture disc vinyl in gatefold sleeve with printed colour inner bags’; and ‘limited-run double disc printed on CDs made of unicorn’s horn which play once then disintegrate so every time you want to listen you have to rebuy the twatting thing: there, does that make you feel special now?‘

This record is represented by the thought:

“Human culture has never – AND WILL NEVER – rise above 1982′s seminal The Number Of The Beast. Which I of course have in the ultra-limited edition version, which is printed on stonewashed denim and completely unplayable in any device ever invented.”

So there you are, folks. Have fun with these.

Or block your ears up with candlewax in a desperate attempt to avoid ever hearing one single note of them. We’re easy.

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Sometimes when being satanic just isn't enough anymore, a fellow's gotta come up with new fancy ways to shock people – and murder isn't generally an option due fairly heavy consequences.

Our cousin Mort, for instance, drank a three gallon hot sauce-bourbon mixture that left him in a coma for just under five days. When he came to in that hospital bed, and he saw both of his moms staring down at him, well that's the kind of loving attention he hasn't had in years. It's what he wanted.

Marilyn Manson is kind of like our cousin Mort. He's desperately looking for something to get him famous again – and he thinks his answer is rattlesnakes. He wants to fill up a bathtub with at least 87 of them, then crawl in and let them intertwine with his privies for no less than 45 minutes. All this to get in the Guinness Book next to those two fat scooter-riding twins.

A noble cause.

Marilyn Manson has been shocking us for years, what with his blue makeup and fancy white boob-suit. He even bought dead children with keyboardist money and took a swing at doing some poor girl on camera. Shocking as all that was, it doesn't work for him anymore.

That's why he's moving on to pretending he's on Fear Factor. We haven't heard of any goat-bladder recipes per se, but we have heard he has every intention of bathing with dozens and dozens of live rattle snakes. According to a nameless source:

"Marilyn is desperate to get into the famous book, and wants to do it for something people will associate him with. He thought about all the wacky records he could try and break, and came across Jackie Bibby's record. That's when he decided he wanted to try and break it."

Sounds good, right? But if he has as much luck with that as he did seducing Lindsay Lohan, his face will get sprayed with rattler spoo and the snakes will crawl in and out his ribcage with ease because some of those chest-bones are still missing.

Missing chest-bones are a dream for rattlesnakes.

Read More:

Marilyn Manson To Attempt 'Snake Bath' Record – Stuff.Co.NZ