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Ooh, Scary!

Halloween Masks II

By Joe MacLeod and Tom Scocca | Posted 10/25/2000

For All Hallows' Ween, we at Baltimore's Most Cheaply Thrilling Alternative Weekly once again offer our economical package of horrific holiday headgear--masks you can cut out and wear on your very own mugs. This year, we doff the tops of our skulls and bow our quivering brains to the inspirational influence of the hirsute New York-based death-metalists ANGEL ROT. The unholy trinity's Sidebar gig earlier this month, opening for Dying Fetus, gave us our rallying cry and theme for the season: "Baltimore, we don't have much to say to you," frontman Tom Five intoned, "except for our . . .

Message of Unending Doom!"

Creature From the Gluteal Cleft

We don't begrudge the Baron of Buttocks his platinum hair and his platinum record. But where some folks hear a cheerful dance hit about ass-floss, we quake before a Message of Unending DooM. Even before Sisqo got into the act, one fat-bottomed girl popping out a thong nearly unstrung the government of the mightiest nation on Earth. Try on the mask, and thrill to the terrifying power as untold millions follow your command to brandish the barely covered flesh where the sun dares not shine. Skid-mark remover not included.


The odor of fear joins the other odors on the banks of Middle River. A ravenous creature is rampaging through the marshes, devouring humble waterfront parcels at the bidding of its wealthy masters. Back lower-middle-class riversiders into a corner and condemn their assets for your fat-cat developer buddies as you wear the mask of Baltimore County Executive C.A. "Dutch" Ruppersberger. A word of caution: So crazed will you be with land-gobbling, you will be deaf to the voters' own Message of Unending DooM as they light torches and storm to the ballot box to end your political career. Government pension not included.


We thought about spoofing it; we thought about quoting bits of it for a clever essay. But, honestly, on the subject of the Eternal Oriole, we couldn't improve on Black Sabbath's original Message of Unending DooM. 3-in-1 Oil not included.

Has he lost his mind?

Can he see or is he blind?

Can he walk at all,

Or if he moves will he fall?

Is he alive or dead?

Has he thoughts within his head?

We'll just pass him there

why should we even care ?

He was turned to steel

in the great magnetic field

Where he traveled time

for the future of mankind

Nobody wants him

He just stares at the world

Planning his vengeance

that he will soon unfurl

Now the time is here

for Iron Man to spread fear

Vengeance from the grave

Kills all the people he once saved

Nobody wants him

They just turn their heads

Nobody helps him

Now he has his revenge

Heavy boots of lead

fills his victims full of dread

Running as fast as they can

Iron Man lives again! *

* Words and music by Frank Iommi, John Osbourne, William Ward, and Terence Butler

© Copyright 1970 (Renewed) and 1974 Westminster Music Ltd., London, England

TRO-Essex Music International, Inc., New York, controls all publication rights for the U.S.A. and Canada. Used by permission


There are certain normal limits politicos obey. Being president of the City Council, for instance, is more than enough to satisfy their hunger: You show up on Monday nights, and in exchange you get 80 large a year, a sweet parking spot on War Memorial Plaza, and the chair of the Board of Estimates, which enables you to take care of your campaign supporters. And you're a heartbeat away from the mayor's office, in the event of a tragic guitar-tuning accident.

But Sheila Dixon wants more, more, more. Which is why, despite the recommendation of a state ethics panel, she clings to her $29,000-a-year part-time state job as an international trade specialist, and the junkets that go with it. Try on our Dixon mask and pretend you're spending three days in New Delhi on the taxpayers' dime. Think of other jobs you can grab, to push your income from the low six figures to the mid-sixes--or higher! Who'll stop you? Your résumé will arrive on a thousand personnel-office desks, a Message of Unending DooM for any one-paycheck peon whose job you fancy. Frequent-flier miles not included.


There are mysterious and invisible forces in this world, shaping the destiny of humankind. Which is why the next gubernatorial election, still two years away, is already over. Harness the dark powers behind the throne as you don the mask of Governor-in-Waiting Kathleen Kennedy Townsend. Feel the ancient power of Clan Kennedy--and the surge of money assembled by current Gov. Parris Glendening on your behalf--flow into your mortal frame. This is a one-party state, and thanks to breeding and brokering, it's your party. Dissident Democrats, wishful Republicans--all can read the writing on the wall: a Message of Unending DooM, if you will. Uncle Teddy not included.


The men of medical science cringed in terror! No, OK, the men of medical science just sorta winced a little bit and tried to point out that the West Nile virus isn't really such a bad disease. Shut up, men of medical science! We want fear! We want horrible diseases on the rampage so we can lock our doors and shut our windows and take inventory of our psychosomatic symptoms. We want massive overkill, clouds of insecticide, the works. Be the deathly life of the party in the guise of a media-sensationalacious dead crow, a walking Message of Unending DooM. Mosquitoes not included.

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