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To some degree I get the whole concern about western medicine. I will acquiesce to the point that it seems like doctors often come off as apathetic, beleaguered pill machines who spend just enough time with you to figure out what name to put on the scrip for antibiotics. I get that. I also get the perception that they couldn’t care less about you unless you have a potential disease that lets them roll out the big expensive device that looks suspiciously like a pinball machine and all the lab techs are wearing flannel shirts and truckers hats and reek of piss-water beer. And when they fire up this fancy new high tech piece of lab equipment, the greatest hits of Randy Travis start to play and you awake to find you have the ability to keister a Prius. So yeah, I get the suspicion. But you have to realize that just because the Chinese were tooting rails of powdered monkey paw 5000 years ago doesn’t mean it’s a more viable form of medicine. The Chinese still think that you can eat rhino horn and it somehow reconstitutes in your dick. Trust me, you are not able to charge a band of African hunters with your cock after eating rhino horn. So, sure, keep a healthy distrust of your doctor, but flat out fucking avoid anyone trying say that herbs are the only answer. The truth lay somewhere in the middle. Ask Gordon Lightbody of Snow Patrol. The guy has been walking around with a dislocated jaw for the last eight years because he didn’t trust western medicine, opting instead to rub beaver dung or some silly shit like that on his face instead. He got drunk one night and fell down a flight of stairs at a nightclub. He says, "I busted myself up pretty bad. My eye closed over like a beaten boxer and I lost some teeth, which I got replaced. Because of my previous night's behavior to the nursing staff, the only thing they wanted was rid of me so there were no head X-Rays taken.” He’s had the pain in his jaw for years now but never wanted to go back to the doctor until just recently when the pain became unbearable. He finally gave in and the doctor took an x-ray and discovered he’s been walking around with a dislocated jaw. Now, instead of just having it popped back in and being done with it, which is what would have happened if he had addressed this years ago, he has to wear some sort of dental device for then next several months. But he’s not given himself over entirely to western meds. He’s dealing with the pain using acupuncture.
In a world, where one man does a thing in a slaughter house in Oklahoma City, stuff happens and it will probably be really weird but have a good soundtrack. Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips and Justine Timberlake are… Guys Saying Crazy Shit While Covered in Cow Blood.” That’s basically what the trailer will sound like for Wayne Coyne’s next filmmaking effort, but probably with some more details. Or less. Actually it will probably be some giant rubber labia lip-synching some random lyrics while psychedelic imagery scrolls across the screen in the back ground followed by a cow shitting the name of the movie into a crib capped with stock footage of a nuclear detonation. But if he were going to have a stereotypical trailer with the movie guy providing the voice over, it would probably sound a little like my version. That’s because Wayne is working on his next movie, which he says will be a simpler concept than “Christmas on Mars,” a movie that he hand made all of the space station sets for, built all the costumes and created all of the effects. He says, "I'm going to try to get real actors too. I'm in the process of begging Justin Timberlake to be part of it; if I'm lucky I'll be able to wear him down in another year." He says this film will take place in Oklahoma City, partly in houses and on the street and partly in a slaughter house, for some reason.
And remember how I said EMI was selling off the famous Abby Road studios where every Beatles album amongst many others were produced? A couple of weeks ago EMI backed off of that idea realizing that it was one of the few truly valuable assets it had left. Well, they’re going to probably need to go ahead and contact their realtor because the already flat-fucking-broke company is about to get a little flatter because Pink Floyd is thinking about getting their sue on. See, Pink Floyd’s contract with EMI all those years ago stipulated that EMI could sell their albums and albums only. They were not allowed to break up records and sell them as singles. Many of Floyd’s records are concept albums, or at the very least have a specific flow that the band did not want undone by people buying one song at a time. And that was all and good back in the 80’s. In fact it benefitted EMI. If you wanted “Another Brick in the Wall pt. 2” you had to buy the whole Wall. More money for EMI. But people aren’t buying albums or even CDs anymore. Their going to iTunes and picking and choosing. EMI, wanting to sell something as opposed to standing around in a record store for people to give up on this whole internet fad, started posting Floyd albums on iTunes, with the band’s permission of course. But they forgot about that singles clause and allowed individual songs to be purchased. Floyd finally figured it out and would like to talk to EMI about it. Talk through a giant cock made of lawyers. The band's lawyer questioned EMI's ''entitlement to sell individual tracks, or indeed any tracks, otherwise than in the original configuration of the Pink Floyd albums." The question now is EMI entitled to any of the money they made from individual sales? And does this breach of contract release Pink Floyd to record with whomever they chose? EMI reported in February it made a £1.5 billion pre-tax loss last year.
Americans have a reputation in the world of being roided out, overly aggressive, dim-witted, crass assholes and I’m not exactly sure how we got that reputation. I look at Fatty in his cardigans and think, “How could we ever be mistaken for anything but effeminate, bookish, cancer-ridden mole men?” And then I look at myself and wonder how we could be mistaken for anything but squinty, flannel-wearing sasquatches with a penchant for tickling your liver with a five inch blade. But then I read stories like this and remember, “Oh yeah, that’s right. 80% of our ambassadors to the world actually ARE roided out, overly aggressive, dim-witted, crass assholes. Fun Lovin’ Criminals front man Huey Morgan has had a long standing war of words with Damon Albarn of Blur. I’m not sure that Albarn has really taken the time to notice this supposed feud, considering he’s busy producing music with any of his three bands, but Damon’s lack of involvement has yet to deter Huey. After years of cease fire, Huey has entered the demilitarized zone of this one-sided battle and started shooting rubber bands off his thumb. THE WAR IS BACK ON! Huey said, "When any band gets a lot of success there is a crossroads you come to, and you can take it like a man, or turn into a prat like the dude from Blur, Damon Albarn. He's an asshole. He is like an egomaniac. He said something to me one time and he didn't even know me. He almost got a slap." You hear that you hugely successful, talented and, by most accounts, pretty cool guy? You almost got a slap! Why did Damon Albarn of Blur (a band with multiple platinum selling records and a grip of hits in the UK and one US hit that still has regular rotation on rock stations) almost get a slap from the guy in Fun Lovin’ Criminals (who wrote a weed song that referenced Scooby Snacks that occasionally gets played when VH1 shows a I Love the 90s rerun)? He did something you wouldn’t even do to your worst enemy. Damon tried to hug him. Yes, the sour relationship started back in 2000 when the two ran into each other in a London nightclub and Albarn, clearly just being an asshole, tried to hug Huey Morgan even though they had only met a couple of times before. The incident led to Morgan branding Albarn a "cocksucker" and slamming him for his "rock star" attitude. Since Damon is thus far taking the high road and ignoring this dipshit, allow me to respond in his stead. First, Huey, change your fucking name. There’s one Huey and his last name is Lewis and you couldn’t hold his fucking jock (mostly because rumor has it that Huey Lewis is carrying a meaty tee ball bat in his pants). You’re a stoner with rage and intimacy issues. Your name is Chad from here on out. Second up Chad, if someone wants to throw a hug on you in a nightclub, that doesn’t make them an egomaniac or a rockstar or a cocksucker. It puts them somewhere in the range between “overly friendly” and “drunk.” Take the hug, sit down and have a drink. You know who wants to slap the huggy guy, Chad? Assholes. You don’t have to like it and you don’t have to hug back, but if Damon Albarn has a few too many mojitos and wants to snuggle for a sec, lean in, take the hug and order another date-raper’s delight and shut the fuck up.
And a couple of weeks ago I said there was some bad news for Foo Fighters fans. I said that if they were hoping for any new Foo, they’d probably be waiting for a while because Them Crooked Vultures were already working on their next album. Well, boy is my face red. Well, it would be if you could see through the thick thatch of hair covering my entire body. Seems I made an assumption, and you know what that does. That makes an ass out of fuck you. I assumed that if Them Crooked Vultures was making ia record that Dave would want to focus solely on that, but I forgot that Dave Grohl is a machine and he can do whatever the hell he wants. Grohl confirmed that time has been set aside at the end of the summer for Foo Fighters to enter the studio and start work on their seventh album.
According to the internet, Lady Gaga has a John Holmes cock tucked back between her legs, a feat that (if it were true) should earn her some respect because it would some serious core strength to drag that slab of dick around all day. But, Lady Gaga proved that she was in fact a woman by squatting onstage at the Brit awards and letting her bacon pita sing a verse or two. The first fell into a pit of never ending despair as though they had looked into the face of Cthulhu. Ironically Cthulhu, who was also in the front row, vomited a small Romanian village into his top hat after seeing Gaga’s battered ham wallet. And now that we have photographic proof that she isn’t tucking back a butcher shop in her leotard, Gaga wants to make fun of the rumors. She was doing a photoshoot and wanted to take a few with her wearing a strap-on. She said, "I want to wear a dick strapped to my vagina. We all know that one of the biggest talking points of the year was that I have a dick, so why not give them what they want?” Unfortunately the editors at Q Magazine shot down the idea opting instead for a boring, clichéd topless, arms crossed over the breasts with leather pants approach. I have to give the chick credit. I think her music is shit and her fashion sense is ridiculous but I kinda respect the attempt to fuck with people. The internet says you have a dick, show them you have the biggest, blackest horse cock the world has ever seen.
The supergroup bar is about to be reset. The supergroup with the biggest pedigree right now is Them Crooked Vultures with members of Foo Fighters, Queens of the Stone Age and Led Zeppelin. Well, a new group in the works will combine Zeppelin and the Who. Roger Daltry says he wants to make a blues record with Jimmy Page. Daltry says, "He needs a singer to drive him. I'm a great blues singer. I don't sing the blues with The Who, but that's what I used to be before Townshend started writing. I used to be a great blues singer."
And Muse continues to prove why they are cooler than your favorite band. Not only do they shred ass, not only are their songs better, not only are they able to channel Queen in a way that makes Paul Rogers want to eat the barrel of a shotgun in shame, but they also have more respect for their fans and a better understanding of how to remain a viable and profitable band in the digital age. Unfortunately their record label still has no clue. Executives at Warner Music announced earlier this month they were withdrawing permission for their artists' songs to be used by streaming sites like Last.fm instead throwing their support by any site that makes you pay for it. And bassist Chris Wolstenholme is pissed. He says, "It's like taking your song off the radio, isn't it? You're instantly taking your song away from a group of potential listeners. The corporations are setting the rules on these things because they're clutching at straws. They've lost so much money on record sales because of the internet.” He says that a lot of the opposition to downloading isn’t coming from the bands, it’s from the labels. He says, “As far as bands are concerned you just want people to hear your music whichever way they can."
What has been the long held opinion of Courtney Love? Sure, she’s thought to be a talentless, junkie, succubus who would lose the Mother of the Year award to Diane Downs. But that is indisputable fact. I’m talking about opinion. And the one prevailing opinion about Courtney is that the cavernous bear den she calls a vagina reeks like an open mass grave of competitive eaters whose last meal was cauliflower, haggis and dog shit. That’s just an opinion because no man has been able to get close enough to smell it and live to tell the tale. It’s theorized that her twat stank is like the smoke monster in Lost, a sentient pillar of gut churning stink that can sense fear. Any attempt to confront the creature results in immediate death. If only there was a way to defeat this creature. If only Courtney’s vagina could be cleansed of its evil so that a little midget woman could walk out of it and exclaim, “This cooch is clear.” But where could we possibly find that much douche? We’d need a never ending torrent of vinegar and water driven at fire hose pressure into the mouth of the beast just to stand a chance. We’d need… JOHN MAYER!!!! And given the right conditions, that meeting of the great powers, vaginal rot and unrelenting douche geysers, could possibly happen. That condition? An epic grudge fuck. Apparently John Mayer is too much even for Courtney, and that’s saying something because she dangled from Billy Corgan’s balls for a while. Courtney read the Playboy interview with John and immediately called her publicist so that she could make a statement, which is what she calls it when she totters into the computer room and starts tooting rails off the keyboard. The resulting random keystrokes have created the following Twitter posts. "Do you ever feel like spite hate fucking John Mayer. Just to put him in his place, he's a better guitarist than me but not better in bed! Say your fucking John Mayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times... Mayer's a little bland for me and youngish. I'll do young, but he's neither Yale Harvard Oxford and he's not really rock, so not for me." John responded but no one could understand the Niagra Falls of Massengil pouring out of his mouth.
And so long as I’m cheap-shotting a woman I’ve never met before in my life, Kelly Osbourne. Aw, fatty, fat get sad when people say fat things to fat face? Why don’t you grab a jowl and dab the Crisco dribbling from your fat tear ducts, huh hefty? Yes, it appears that Kelly Osbourne couldn’t understand why people made fun of her weight when she was quite obviously a drug addict. She said: "I took more hell for being fat than I did for being an absolute raging drug addict. I will never understand that. One day some horrible obnoxious teenager screamed out a car window to me, 'You're fat!'. I went to my parents bawling, 'I would rather be called ugly than be called fat!'" OK. Aw, poor butt ugly pig face doesn’t like ugly shit said about her ugly face. Why don’t you do the world a favor and go make out with a wheat thresher and then take a dip in lava pool full of lava resistant sharks, uggo? Kelly is clean and sober and has shed over 42lbs but said it was difficult due to her love of shoving fistfuls of fattening shit into her fat, ugly face. She says, "I never wanted to do anything to fix it ... For a very long time, Mrs. Field's salted cookies were my favorite thing in the world ... It's hard to get out of a hole you've dug so deeply."
German culture is rich and complex. It is the birthplace of a great cultural heritage bringing the world everything from beer to Bach to the VW Beetle. But despite being the linchpin on which all human accomplishment hinges, its customs are often misunderstood. When people think about Germans they think of super beings that can crush atoms in between their thumb and forefinger. They think of a race of people with such superior intellect that Steven Hawking avoids them at all cost for fear of looking like an imbecile. They think of a people who should be worshiped as living gods walking among us and celebrated for their superiority in every way but, because Germans are a humble people, refuse to be deified by the primitives that make up the rest of the world’s population. But it is because of their vast superiority that people fail to understand their customs. Like the well known custom of shitting on each other while wearing leather corsets and stiletto boots made from shellacked aborted fetuses. People think that this is an example of the depraved sexual nature of the German people, but it’s not. See, Germans don’t excrete waste the way normal humans do. Since they are so advanced, they evolved away from needing a gastrointestinal track so they replaced it with a soft serve ice cream maker. Now what looks like a depraved act of fecalphilia is in fact a healthy snack served conveniently on your chest. And lederhosen. To the outside observer these ball-chrushingly tight leather shorts with accompanying suspenders look like a ridiculous costume for drunken, sausage chugging yokels. In fact, the lederhosen work much the same way as Captain Atom’s suit, containing the vast oceans of atomic energy stored in their balls. The contents of just one German’s lederhosen has the power to impregnate every woman on the planet ten times over. Even the customs of German rock bands are misunderstood. In Germany they don’t use pens. Since every German fist print is unique, they sign documents by punching them leaving a glowing red hot impression of their fist for all time. And when you request an autograph from a musician it is customary for them to punch it into whatever you offer. That’s what a woman found out when she requested an autograph from Tokio Hotel’s Tom Kaulitz. Tom was sitting in his car at a gas station in Hamburg when a woman walked up to his window and asked for a picture and an autograph. Since Germans can’t be photographed by any of Earth’s primitive technology, he had to politely decline in the customary German way of rolling down the window and flicking a lit cigarette at her. The woman, pointing out that Tom dropped his cigarette but wanting to extinguish the burning tip before it ignited the gasoline fumes wafting through the air, stubbed out the cigarette on his window. The appreciative Kaulitz got out of the car and expressed his gratitude by punching his signature into her eye, an autograph that she will cherish forever.
And a book signing pro-tip. This is something that anyone who has attended signings by Maya Angelou or JK Rowling can tell you. Don’t stand around in the store smoking a joint with a backpack full of explosives, at least not unless you want to cap the evening with a cop’s knee on the back of your neck and the bomb squad detonating your math homework. Ozzy has apparently written a book (which I imagine is a tapestry of literary art woven entirely with vowels.) And, as you do when you are an author, Ozzy made an appearance at a Palm Beach Barnes and Noble to sign some copies. 19-year-old Nathan Mosier decided to pass the time in line by sparking up a joint. Perfectly normal and acceptable behavior in Florida. Unfortunately, those fascist pig cops saw him. Mosier bolted, but being a 19-year-old who smokes enough weed to think blazing in public would go unnoticed by the cops standing 15 feet away, his lung capacity was quickly reached and the dude folded like a sack of laundry. While the cops were searching him they discovered homemade fireworks in his back pack so they called in the bomb squad. Mosier was charged with possession of marijuana with intent to sell, possession of narcotic equipment and possession of explosives. At least one of those is a felony and possibly all three, depending on the laws in Florida.
I apparently have very different nightmares than Kid Rock. To me a nightmare is finding a vagina on my hand and it speaks to me with Lou Farigno’s voice and it tells me I don’t change the oil in my car enough and I scream, “But Hulk Twat, I change it every 3000 miles.” And the vagina on my hand vomits a swarm of bees with Sarah Palin’s face and when they flap their wings, instead of the usual bee buzz, they play TLC’s “Don’t Go Chasin’ Waterfalls.” And they tear the flesh from my bones as Rosie O’Donnell’s face rises on the horizon. That’s usually when I wake up screaming and my wife has to beat me back into REM sleep with her Twilight anthology. And I think that’s a pretty typical nightmare. You can actually look up “bee-vomiting Lou Farigno vaginas irrationally concerned with vehicle maintenance” in any remedial psychology text book and find that it’s one of the more common dreams, right up there with Sara Gilbert shooting boiled spinach from her fingertips while shouting Alec Baldwin’s God complex speech from Malice while your mom plays a woeful rendition of the Superfriends theme on Jews harp. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, since I’m sure we’ve all had that dream. But Not Kid Rock. Apparently he dreams Tea Party rallies and pillow fights between Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly. That’s because he talked about one of his recent bone chilling nightmares on Fox News in such graphic detail that Gretchen Carlson vomited up the baby heart omelet and bunny tears she had for breakfast that morning. For some of you more sensitive listeners, you may want to kill yourself so you don’t have to live in a world where this nightmare exists. Kid Rock said, “I have nightmares sometimes you know. I’m gonna wake up and everyone’s gonna be driving Priuses…living in a condo…we’re all getting health insurance.” Hopefully you haven’t shattered your iPhone and used the jagged shards in an attempt to claw that horrific image from your eyes. Later he lamented the slow death and decay of Detroit saying, “Such ingenuity you know, cool stuff, ’57 Chevys, it came in 17 colors, every one of them red, white, and blue. But now…it just reminds me of Europe. Everyone’s gonna be driving a smart car and living in a condo. And that’s not the American Dream.” No, you’re right Kid, the American dream is to drive a land yacht 30 miles in traffic on your way to your bullshit factory job, work your ass off to build up a corporation so some white haired dickhead CEO can drive the thing into the dirt and collect his 100 million dollar golden parachute leaving you jobless and utterly unqualified for any job that doesn’t involve riveting a door panel together. And it’s about that time you feel a lump on your balls and, since congress is more interested in playing political whack-a-mole than finding way to pass health care reform, you get to die in your dilapidated double wide at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac. You’re right Kid Rock, fuck Europe and their health care and their practical urban planning and their efforts to curb global warming. That is a nightmare.
