Yesterday I turned on the local radio station in the car, hoping to listen to my generations’ music; hoping to witness, firsthand, the expansion of its metaphorical cervix and push forth the head of a new musical sensation that will be remembered and cherished by myself when I, too, reach the onset of the age where I mindlessly tap my fingers off-beat on the steering wheel, singing songs I don't really remember, but still get away with saying it was "my generation" of music.
However, I was massively disappointed. I thought that perhaps this new shitty music was started by the likes of “Simple Plan” or “Good Charlotte,” but no. I suddenly came to the realization that shitty music like this has been slowly making its way into our “hip” new millennia. Many people might say “Hey, I like that music!” That’s because, sadly, the evil music industry has slowly conditioned society to like a certain brand of music that is easy to reproduce to make gourds of cash. These types of music fit into a six easily identified categories:
1. Sappy Love Songs with a Piano: Music like this sprouts up and takes on a sad and dramatic tone by importing a piano. By adding a piano, rather than a typical band set up with drums, guitar, and bass, the music has a sharp new edge and can be taken much more seriously, because there is a piano. Music like this rears its ugly head, and by using a whimsical melody of a piano, throws lyrics that make abso-fucking-lutely no sense at all. Many people will refute this with the comment “you just don’t understand how dramatic and cunning this music is.” Actually, you’re a fucking moron and are demonstrating how no one listens to the singer. If people took one second to actually listen to the shit-poor lyrics that actually make up the song, they would be horrified to find that they are probably written by an autistic paraplegic pirate who speaks a mixture of German and Swahili. While Cap’n “One-Eye” Parapleege makes an excellent drinking buddy, he makes one awful songwriter. While many do not accept this, I will take an older “hit” to show you how wrong you really are, Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles.” By older I mean “last year,” but America has a memory of approximately 14.7 seconds.
The song is reasonable until the chorus. Stupid, uninspired, and unoriginal, but reasonable. Until this horrific mutation of decent lyric is uttered. “If I could fall into the sky, do you think time would pass us by?” So, I guess my first question is, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Seriously. And don’t pull that “I think therefore I am competent” logic, because anyone who thinks this makes any sense should be covered in honey and bamboo, tied down, and be promptly sodomized by mutant Grizzly/Pandas.
While the Grizandas are busy, you can visit your local nut house and ask to see the “Schizophrenics Who Have Received Serious Head Trauma And Were Abused As Children With Tools And Rabid Beavers” unit. Show them this god awful lyric, and ask them to explain it. This will cause them to stop dead in their busy schedule of shitting themselves, moaning, and figuring out what department of the government you were sent by to silence them for knowing too much. They will stare at you as a cow stares at an oncoming train, smirk, shake their heads, and simply ask for the nurse. Then you will be escorted to the ward of “People Who Like Vanessa Carlton” unit, and will be programmed as a terminator to go back in time and kill your own ancestors and anyone else that remotely agrees with your opinion on music, effectively killing off you, your retarded families, and hopefully society’s entire existence. This might seem harsh, but anything and everything that likes music like Vanessa Carlton must be forced into a genocide that makes the Holocaust look like “Das Cakewalk.”
That being dealt with, I will now move on to the next part of the “music” which causes the eardrum to thrash is such a violent manner that you, and everyone else’s brain to implode within an 8 block radius. “I would walk a thousand miles if I could just see you tonight.” Basically, I’m unimpressed with your “desire,” and want you to take your whiny, depressed, bitch-ass and stand out in the streets of Neo-Tokyo until some biker crams a Molotov light bulb down your throat and blows it out the back of your skull, so you can’t sing lyrics that are shittier than a toilet in a Mexican restaurant anymore.
The reason I say this is the earth’s diameter is roughly 8000 miles. And that’s the diameter. I don’t know the length around the earth, which, needless to say, is one fucking long walk. The Mississippi is over 2,350 miles long. This bitch won’t fucking walk the god-damn Mississippi for me. Come on, the Ohio River is 975 miles long. I might give you a dollar or more likely a Hadoken right out of Street Fighter 2 to the nuts if you walked the Ohio River trying to impress me.
A thousand miles? Fucking come on! Walk at least half the fucking diameter of the earth to impress me. Remember this is in the hypothetical situation she WILL walk a thousand miles; she won’t even do it. Now, what’s stopping her from walking a thousand miles? I mean, she says, “I would.” I would solve world hunger. I would make Hugh Hefner give me the Playboy Mansion. I would fight mighty Thor and all of Valhalla hailing on the backs of Grizandas blindfolded and Cap’n Parapleege tied to my back. Do you see the error here? It’s fucking pointless, because she WOULD, but she WON’T. Not “if I could.” No, she can’t see whoever she wants to, who I imagine is some fucking pizza face who’s amazed at the existence of peanut butter, and is easily satisfied by the walk of a thousand measly miles. Nothing is impairing her from walking a thousand miles, but according to the music video, all she wants to do is ride around on a fucking piano as an excuse to not walk, but can still get around and bitch about how hard her life is.
2. Whiny Bands: I might have spent a tad too long on Vanessa Carlton, but fuck it all, she deserves it. Now, this section won’t be nearly as long, because there is no way in words I can convey how fucking whiny bands like Simple Plan are. While their CD cover shows them hanging out with a stripper who apparently just got married and other reasonably attractive women, I know that they will never get laid, because that unstoppable sex-machine 8-year-old next door has more testosterone in his fingernail, where there is virtually none aside from scarce traces that exist due to the fact there are small traces of everything everywhere, than the entire band of Simple Plan combined and put up to the 2,384,196th power. Some of you may be laughing now, because you realize that I cannot possibly conceive the size of such massive number. Sorry, fucko, but joke’s more on you than AIDS on Magic Johnson. You can’t begin to realize how little that band is packing. I’d do another math comparison with the size of my penis and theirs, but that number would cause the dimension of Xahporgeous 7 to open due to the power emitted from the number alone and let the horrifying Zamborgg Oriozox the 3rd to consume the planet we hold so dear. While the title of their first CD bravely states “No Pads, No Helmets…Just Balls,” the bitter irony that rippled through my body when I read this has removed the taste buds from my mouth and now everything tastes like chalk in my family for seven long generations. To close this section, while you may have laughed at something I said, the sad fact is that girls who hang out with Simple Plan are going over to poor little 8-year-olds houses and humping their tiny undeveloped penis to smithereens to fill the pang in their gullet due to lack of manliness that infects them after looking at Simple Plan. I’m terrified to say, not even Contra III: The Alien Wars could fill the need of testosterone for half a member of Simple Plan. If you have ever played this game, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, visit here to get a good picture of what I’m saying.
3. John Mayer: This fucking bastard. I hate him more than I hate cigarette companies. No, I hate him more than those Truth ads that think they’re making even the slightest dent in cigarette companies profits. Its not that they’re trying, that’s cool. It’s they slap all over their website how great they are. Fuck you, Truth. Well, that was a tangent, now on to business. I didn’t have much of a problem with John Mayer, I actually liked one of his songs: but that was before. Before I heard “Your Body is a Wonderland.” While it still pisses me off that all of his songs besides that other one before aforementioned song exactly the same (if you don’t believe me, listen to St. Patrick’s Day, Why Georgia, Song for No One, etc. They’re all about how much he sucks at making songs that differ more than titles. Pretty clever, John. But I’ve seen through your clever scheme! Unfortunately, recent reports declare that changing a title of a song does not change the content of that song, you’re an enormous faggot, and that I’m standing behind you with a shotgun loaded with shells of little shotgun shells filled with atom bombs), it pisses me off about 10,000,000 x 10,000,000 = more that he wrote, sings, and makes money off that piece of shit song “Your Body is a Wonderland.” But, having the insatiable hunger for genius, I’ve figured out that John Mayer is just a gigantic pimp that has done what every pimp dreams; harness women in the nation with your platinum-pimp-like grip, have them pay you, and having to give them NONE of the profits.
Don’t believe me? His Album is titled “PIMP.” And don’t forget, he’s wearing a chain with a gold thing. YOU MUST BE A PIMP IF YOU ARE WEARING A CHAIN WITH SOMETHING THAT IS GOLD HANGING FROM IT. Unless that gold thing is a locket, then your name is Felicity and you have conned millions of dollars out of decent, fucking stupid, hardworking people through your awful book and T.V. series. Burn. Burn in Hell with Bozo the Clown. Or you are possibly an old person who can’t forget their past. You lost the drag with those punks from under the bridge, and you lost your girl at the same time. Fucking forget your past and go surpass drunk drivers in car accidents, like an American Senior Citizen. If you’re not going to forget your past, make up war stories that keep changing because you’re insane. Sorry, that was a really bad tangent. But here we go! John Mayer’s pimp-hold on women comes down to an idea, which is about .0000000000000000046 percent as good of an idea as porn. Which, granted, is great since porn is such a great idea it can’t possibly be matched. The closest was sliced bread by .000000092. The idea is to write your hit song about an incomparably attractive woman, but base it so it applies to all women. Which makes all girls, from the model to, well, this...
By harnessing the disgusting fat of the nation, unlike “at least I’d fuck you” attractive prostitutes that most pimps use, Mayer is dragging in more money than a dealer backstage with the Rolling Stones. This would be okay, if the music were fucking half decent. But with lyrics like “bubblegum tongue,” who could like this song? The answer? Chicks like Queen Fatifa earlier who are loved by no one than the few sick fucks with fat fetishes but would go near the girl because of what their friends with normal fetishes, like bestiality and necrophilia, would think. To close this section off, anyone who has a smug look on their face thinking “he’ll make more money than you ever will,” is in for a surprise when they wind up in deepest bowels of Hell burning horrible eternity with John Mayer while I laugh as a disembodied ghost who will eventually kill the Ghostbusters. Sorry, John; Hell ain’t a wonderland.
4. Punk Bands: Okay, out of the millions of punk songs ever written, they sometimes get lucky and make a good one or two. Other than that, punk fucking sucks. Period. Most just admit it, but if you suck, like Weezer, you pretend your music is Emo. I hate Emo so fucking much I can’t keep writing this section.
5. Rap: Rapper dies, rappers bitch and moan about how much they loved them, rappers write songs about how much the world needs love (often done by rappers who were once good), new rapper surfaces, shit goes down, rapper dies, repeat. Don’t believe me? Aliyah, songs about Aliyah, “Where is the Love?” by Black-Eyed Peas, 50 cent, 50 cent will probably get shot. Or P-Diddy, or something.
6. Other: Final section, this music is either good, or weird. I’m just going to use this last section to talk about how weird Japanese lyrics are. “If there is a dinosaur, then I am going to train him to balance atop of a ball.” “Don’t dry with fakes or fears, for you will hate yourself in the end.” “If your heart is pure, then lets go fishing.” I made that last one up, but it’s probably not far from the truth. Well, that’s music. If you disagree with me, please e-mail me at roxorboxors@hotmail.com
~Willbo Baggins
Note: Maddox and Something Awful are pure genius, and are the only things that are better at Internet satire than I am.