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I love music. You name it, I will listen to it. Except new country, I’d rather be locked in a closet with Cris Collinsworth, so you know I fucking hate new country.
Over the years, I’ve kept up with my favorite type of music, which I guess is called “alternative.” But I stopped listening to that shit because every fucking band sounds like a bunch of dudes who wish they had vaginas. Every song sounds like a Smith song, except way more whiny, bitchy, and pussified.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some old guy chasing kids off the front of my lawn; I keep myself open to new music. Except new country. I would rather spend a day living inside Donald Trump’s mouth than listen to that shit.
I have two sons, and I have tried my best to introduce them to the music that I have loved. It’s worked, kind of. They like Springsteen (I’m sure Sill considers this child abuse, but I know for a fact that he likes to walk around the house wearing vintage lingerie and stiletto heels and singing Foghat songs); my oldest loves Zeppelin and the Ramones – and the middle child likes Black Flag, The Clash, and Social Distortion.
But when we’re driving, my kids grab cue up Spotify and play the most unbelievably shitty fucking music humanity has ever produced. There are two songs that make me want to start tearing out throats with my bare teeth.
One of these songs is called “Sweatshirt” I refer to it as “Shitshirt.” I cannot believe it was written and created by humans, but animals would never cop to producing this aural excrement. The song centers around a fucking idiot kid who is boning a total slut, and he wants her to know that his love can be clearly seen because he lets her wear his sweatshirt.
I am not making this shit up, because I have not done enough drugs or liquor or other abusive substances to make up this kind of fucking shit. The “music” that comprises this song is absolute dreck, it’s nails on chalkboard. Imagine that Auto-Tune was able to shit, and after too much coffee, burritos, corn, and fruit, it sprayed fecal matter all over the wall. The result is the music to this song.
The other song we listen to is “Toothbrush.” It makes me stupider when I listen to it. It also infuriates me, imagine James Harrison on meth, and he’s in a cage, and he can barely reach Tom Brady – that’s the fury that engulfs me. In fact, my wife called me once when this song was on, and I bit her head off and screamed “EAT MY FUCK!” to another driver who cut me off. My sons were oblivious to all of it, because this piece of shit was playing in the car.
So you’re thinking, “Fozz is an old shit living in the past. Probably has a pair of Jams, Vans, Vuarnet sunglasses and a Town and Country surf designs t-shirt. He looks like an escaped patient from a mental institution. Also, he is pants-shitting drunk.”
You are correct.
Here’s my point, these songs have no artistic merit, and they don’t even make you want to get up on a table and dance until you fall off. No soul, no feelings, no emotion. They are Joe Flacco on a Quaalude.
It’s not the genre of pop, it’s the fact there is no talent in pop music.
Here are the top singles from 1968
- Hey Jude The Beatles
- Love is Blue Paul Mauriat
- Honey Bobby Goldsboro
- (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay Otis Redding
- People Got to Be Free The Rascals
- Sunshine of Your Love Cream
- This Guy’s in Love With You Herb Alpert
- The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Hugo Montenegro
- Robinson Simon & Garfunkel
Here are the top singles of 2015. (I have not heard one of them, but I would rather gargle dog vomit than listen to one single note.)
- The Hills [Explicit] Beauty Behind the Madness
- Hello 25
- Can’t Feel My Face Beauty Behind the Madness
- Hotline Bling Views
- Stressed Out Blurryface
- Want to Want Me Everything Is 4
- See You Again Furious 7
- Where Are U Now Purpose
- Love Yourself Purpose
- Cake By The Ocean Cake By The Ocean
Now excuse me, I’m going to pour myself a glass of trouble and listen to “And Out Come the Wolves.”
Sayonara, you miraculous group of heathens.
This shit made me smile:
I spent the Ravens home opener drinking with my good friends and my closest cousin. We finished the night drinking bourbon out of commemorative Orioles and Baltimore Colts glasses from 1970. Goddamn was it a great day.