Out the old hibernian screen door he goes, shrieking. If you could pile all his problems up, they would not make a hill. They would make a hole, the one he's making himself at home in. This is not a blog, it's a hole we fling words into. This is not an explanation, it's an old car sitting sideways in a dry ditch, left wheels spinning useless in the air. There is no place we'd rather be than right here, throwing baseballs at stupid. That stupid looks a lot like us could be just happenstance. We won't know until we hit him, and it hurts. Francis Picabia said, "Only useless things are indispensable." Man, we must be indispensable, big time.
"Every decision you make is a mistake." This is as clear an explanation of futilism as we've ever read. That said, we've decided (mistake!) to take a week or two off to contemplate the uselessness of all things. We'll be back then, and a bigger failure than ever, you can bet on it. We know we don't say it enough, but we appreciate everybody out there who takes the time to read our daily forays into futility. You make every day a better day for us, and we're happy to have met (virtually speaking) each and every one of you. In the meantime, we think we'll go fishing. Fishing, ha! We will not fish. We have no interest in meeting our food face to face. Have fun, everybody!
Geesh. So much for the brain food. It's sad that people feel compelled to make fun of Britney just because she's young and pretty and filthy rich and a mite slow and married to a walking KFC bucket of extra-sleazy dingbats and wings, although come to think of it those are all good reasons to make fun of the woman, even though she appears to have a good heart and can't help it she's as dumb as popcorn, like she's her very own superdense black hole of huh?. We guess what we're trying to say is, stopping make fun of the stoop everybody!
The problem is it doesn't amuse us like the old music. We like Destroyer, for instance, a whole lot, but his very name doesn't crack us up the way, say, Three Dog Night does. Say Three Dog Night, and we'll laugh. Say Four Dog Night, and we'll laugh even harder. Three Million Dog Night might even kill us. And that's just their name. Their album covers send us into transports, their actual music slays us. Grand Funk Railroad, same thing. "We're an American Band" is the greatest and funniest song ever written, funnier even than "MacArthur Park," if only because it has the Grand Funk Railroad name behind it. Someday the new music will probably amuse us the way the old music does now, but by then the old music will probably amuse us even more, in which case we can look forward to a dotage in which we do nothing but howl with laughter at the mere thought of TDN and GFR, while the nurses in the rest home look anxiously at one another, and hopefully slip extra doses of tranquilizers into our mushy, mushy oatmeal.
With the Cyrinian sailors who sail their barks on the giant methane lakes of Titan, and we have partied with the Doobie Brothers. And we are here to tell you, those Cyrinian tars are pussies. They wouldn't survive 5 minutes in the THC-rich environment of the Doobies' tour bus. Said bus has its own ecosystem, unique to this solar system. We have personally experienced hails of hash.
Which wolf? Just, you know, the wolf. Your average Joe Sixpack Wolf. You'd think they'd all be uniformly hungry, wouldn't you? What luck, here's a wolf now. Excuse us? Sir, how hungry are you? Really. Get this, he's a wolf, and he's not that hungry. Seems he just ate a pizza. Well well. It appears we're hungrier than the wolf.
Mick, Her Satanic Majesty requests the return of her lady pants, you doddering poof. Hey, we like Mick. He has a shameless pandering quality we can relate to. It's a pity, though, he didn't get his ticket punched at Altamont. He rather owed it to us to be the sacrificial victim on the altar of the Age of Aquarius. Instead, Marty Balin got one in the kisser and the Stones went on to put out "Sucking in the Seventies," which makes up for its lack of quality by being the most honestly branded piece of product in the history of musical entertainment. And Mick went on to put out a couple of solo records so indescribably bad that in Cockney rhyming slang, scum becomes "Mick Jagger solo album."
No, they're just wholesome American children pledging the flag. Originally, U.S. schoolchildren "took the pledge" whilst giving "the Bellamy salute." This practice persisted until 1942, when somebody noticed the salute's uncanny similarity to the one then popular in Nazi Germany. Too bad, says we. This somehow seems more apropos to the current American Reich than the practice of placing hand over heart. Bring back the Bellamy, slap little swastikas on their arms, and let's get this Party started!