Let's get one thing perfectly clear: Blowfly is the original dirty rapper. Before anyone in 2 Live Crew was old enough to set foot into a peepshow stall or buy a pack of cigarettes, Clarence "Blowfly" Reid was spewing forth raucous raps like "Spermy Night In Georgia" and "What a Difference a Lay Makes" on the regular. If it wasn't for Reid's works over the past 45 years, the world would have been a less moist and crusty place.

​Rocks Off last saw Blowfly live at the Proletariat in 2006 touring behind his just-released LP Blowfly's Punk Rock Party, which saw him profanely reworking classic punk and proto-punk songs from Turbonegro, The Stooges, The Clash ("Should I Fuck The Big Fat Ho?") and the Dead Kennedys ("R. Kelly In Cambodia"). Party was released on former DK frontman Jello Biafra's Alternative Tentacles label.

The 75-years-young rapper and Florida resident still tours the country unfurling his classic tawdry rhymes, filthifying Super Happy Fun Land Friday, and still records albums when he can. The last we heard on the recording front, he had laid down an album of heavy metal covers that has still not seen the light of lay, er, day.

We collected a few of the best and sleaziest songs we could find to get you in the mood for Mr. Fly's SHFL gig. These should be relatively safe for work, unless you work in the front office at Lakewood Church.

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​There are few things in this life that young Rocks Off loves more than a gang of cougars on the town spilling wine on the ground and trying to light the wrong end of a borrowed cigarette whilst slurring in our direction that she likes our tattoos before drunkenly pawing at us. We think it's a mental throwback to all those peculiar crushes we had on our teachers growing up. Plus if you play your cards right, they will buy you stuff, like cab fare.

In the past decade or so, the term "cougar" has come into the social lexicon. One could trace it back to the 1999 film American Pie, where Jennifer Coolidge played the original modern MILF, a sort of Mrs. Robinson for Generation Y with a devastating sexual hunger, hefty alimony checks, children away at college and an SUV with a big back seat. Don't get started on the new "puma" subculture, made up of unmarried girls 27 to 35 stalking the bars for young men who have just reached legal drinking age.

Blame the slow and steady decline of marriage in modern America for putting all these old-enough-to-know-better vixens decked out in Bebe and Banana Republic onto the bar scene to live out their Whitesnake video fantasies on some young bucks who look like extras from the Twilight movies. Bonus points if you look like the exact opposite of their dopey weekend-warrior hunter ex-husband who left her for a waitress at Joe's Crab Shack. Let's just say that if you aren't wearing a Magellan shirt, you will win.

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Great Moments in Douchebaggotry is brought to you by Rocks Off's upcoming "Washington Shore" party, Thursday, February 11 at the Washington Avenue Drinkery. All types of douchebags are encouraged to attend.

Fred Durst's "O" face. We didn't want to show you his dick, but now we're worried this may be worse.

​The word "douchebag" has changed in the past 20 years or so. It used to be a word more specifically relating to criminal scum of the sort NYPD Blue's Andy Sipowicz would scream at or bare his ass to. Over the years, however, it has come to mean all kinds of ill-mannered, clichéd lowlifes, and today Great Moments in Douchebaggery would like to examine the alpha-bro douche, Fred Durst.

Any time you see a guy with the appearance of a frat boy rocking out to Staind or Stone Sour or some other brand of woe-is-me slog-rock too whiny to be metal, you have one man to thank: the former lead singer of a band called Limp Bizkit. About a decade ago, we, as a nation, were briefly fascinated by his mouthy, woman-hating wigger character before most of us realized it wasn't a character, shuddered mightily, and moved on.

It was difficult to pick just one douchebag moment out of Durst's douchey life, but for now, we're going with the sex tape. Supposedly, Fred's phone was hacked and the video was posted on the Internet for all to see, although we consider the odds very good that Fred actually posted the video himself, since he was vain enough to record it and his career is a testament to the fact that the man has no idea when he's failing.

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Mad Men's Christina Hendricks makes us feel like a man in the best possible way...

​He Said's view of manhood wasn't built on sweat and labor the way most guys would probably say. Early on in our musical journey, we always equated music to being sleazy and slithery, or just dancing. It makes sense that the past two and a half decades of our life were spent searching for the perfect mixture of balls and sass in our daily soundtracks. That's why we never got into emo or the soft indie jams because there was no sex in it. They're all brain and no loinage.

Our first rock and roll memories were riddled with innuendo and shock. Going to see Dirty Dancing with our mom when we weren't even in kindergarten. Watching early MTV we saw Duran Duran thrusting on chicks, Motley Crue leering at strippers, and Robert Palmer in a suit being suave as shit. We know for a fact that there does exist a video of a tiny He Said mimicking Tom Cruise's moves from Risky Business in a diaper in the family living room.

It all created a perfect storm for us to listen with our hanging brain instead of our heads. That's probably why the blues and metal were, for better or worse, an early influence on our understanding of female and male roles. Women could either be exalted or exiled it all depending on who was doing the talking. Muddy Waters would say "Come 'ere, girl" while Mick and Keith would turn her over and call her a "starfucker."

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​The approach of Christmas presents a number of dilemmas. Should you put the moves on that hot co-worker at the holiday party? Is now really the best time to come out to your heavily Pentecostal family? And what brand of top-shelf vodka best drowns out the drone of your in-laws and the shrieks of your cousins' children?

Rocks Off has your answers - 1. Yes. 2. Of course. 3. Trick question - use scotch. - but only because we want to address a bigger issue. Musically speaking, the holiday season sucks. It's six weeks of the same carols you grew weary of 20 years ago and "Father Christmas" by the Kinks. People wonder why so many people kill themselves in the month of December - it's because they can't handle "O Come All Ye Faithful" one more goddamned time.

But if you're like us, you can't deny your baser urges. Our desire to hear the nasty stuff doesn't just go away between Thanksgiving and New Year's. What are the options for discerning listeners who want to reconcile their love of sleazy music with the holidays? Allow us to offer the following suggestions.

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Lily Allen: "Here, kitty, kitty..."

​When initial word of millionaire golfer Tiger Woods' car accident in front of his home hit the news wires and Twitter the morning of November 27, the world waited with bated breath. None of us quite knew what his condition was or how extensive his injuries were. In a year that saw Death snatching celebrities left and right, a part of all of us began to write our own mental obituaries of Woods.

Later that day, we found out that he was fine, if a little worse for wear. But his marriage wasn't exactly ship-shape. It's now alleged that Woods had at least nine women on the side, with whom he conducted regular extramarital affairs in hotel rooms, cars, bathrooms and even his own family home.

At the time of this posting, the tally stands at nine women alleged to have slept with or who have already admitted to sleeping with the married golfer. His infidelity is all the more confusing considering that his wife, Elin Nordegren, is a textbook smoking-hot, blonde Swedish ex-model. Rumor has it she took one of Tiger's golf clubs to his SUV in a fit of scorned rage. Understandably, Nordegren has since moved out of the couple's Florida home.

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flickr.com/photos/st3f4an

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It's beginning to sound a lot like Christmas - everywhere we go - and most people probably assume it's all glad tidings of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. Not Rocks Off. We did a little digging, polled our writers and the Houston Press editorial staff, and came up with almost a dozen seasonal songs whose tidings read more like a rap sheet.

We included the maximum allowable sentences under the 2007-08 Texas Penal Code for each degree of violation at the end should you decide to emulate such behavior... 'tis the season. Happy holidays!

Song: "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," Elmo & Patsy

Lyric: "When we found her Christmas mornin,' at the scene of the attack/ She had hoof prints on her forehead, and incriminatin' Claus marks on her back"

Crime: Vehicular Manslaughter

Penalty: Second Degree Felony

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​"Look, Mom. You and Roger always said 'no pills and no powders' so what's the big deal? You don't think I smelled the backyard after that barbecue? The one where all of Roger's geeky college buddies showed up and listened to Temple Of The Dog all night on repeat and that one guy fell asleep next to my Jetta. You suck so hard. I told all my friends the other night that you were cool for letting me get my tongue pierced but now I can tell you were just trying to get on my good side so I wouldn't tell Dad about you selling his autographed Smiths drum head after the divorce. But for reals, I swear I only smoked once."

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs threw one hell of a party last night on the AMD Stage at ACL. Karen O came out dressed in what looked like a giant hipster Snuggie, her head and face mostly obscured by its fabric, while the stage itself housed an enormous eyeball and at least a metric ton of blue glitter.

Photos by Groovehouse

​One of the highlights was Karen O enthusiastically spitting water into the air at least a couple of times during the show.

​The crowd seemed to love it, too.
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Next week Britney Spears hits town for the second time in the past year, bringing her "The Circus Starring Britney Spears" tour back to town. Frankly we don't know why Brit needed to hit Houston one more time, but pardon the pun.

But anyhow, having Britney in town brings back a flood of memories, as it were. See, Rocks Off came of age at a time when she was just hitting MTV. At around 15 years of age or so, a young man's mind and hand become one and the same, like Luke Skywalker and his light saber. At a time in America when Internet porn was slow as shit, Dominique Sachse only came on twice a day and YouTube didn't even exist, one had to make do with what was endlessly writhing before him.

We aren't ashamed to admit that every two months or so, we got a new three-minute girlfriend when Spears released some new soft-core epic wearing something skintight and next to nothing. We know we weren't alone in our fascination, and no doubt men across America just like us were pushing the "mute" button and unzipping, rocking out like some sort of onanistic Jimmy Page.

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