These Kids are Killing my Buzz
Since I refuse to go on air without thoroughly researching my topic of the week, I've been up all night researching the topic of drugs. This basically equates to trying to figure out what combinations of pills, powders and potables go well together (Note: while ether is EXTREMELY amusing to inhale, provided you don't mind losing control of any bodily functions, it is my professional opinion that you should avoid drinking the stuff, especially if used to wash down little blue pills with an E pressed into them. I'll let you figure out what that means.)
In the quest of true scientific knowledge, I am spending the time I'm not actively trying to change reality to fit my whims, I'm watching Cartoon Network (What the hell else am I supposed to be doing, other than repeatedly soiling my pants and wondering how I'm going to plug the holes in my walls left by the numerous crossbow bolts I've fired through the night before my flatmate comes home.)
In the middle of what currently passes for an episode of The Transformers (which, I believe is going by the title Transformers: We're not Even Trying Anymore), an ad comes on for something called Kids Bop, though it does have some number after it.
For those of you who have never experienced the teeth-on-a-chalkboard experience of one of these ads, let me explain it to you:
There is a group of pre-and-meta-pubescent ankle-biters singing along with what passes for pop music, looking like I probably do right now (meaning twitching, drooling and covered in my own filth), and trying to sell you a CD of this.
As disturbing a concept as this seems to be, it's worse than you think.
As I said, there's a number after the title of this thing, something along the lines of Kids Bop 243, which leads me to the even more frightening aspect of this concept.
People are actually buying this crap!
Somewhere, someone saw these rejects from The Mickey Mouse Club, and thought "Hey! That looks like something I want to listen to!"
Now, I live in Nashville, which means that I am exposed to musical root canals on a daily basis. As irritating as country music is, especially if its country music that's so bad even country music radio stations wouldn't touch it, I've always rested easy in the thought that at least the screeching cacophony wasn't being howled at me in my living room by some genetic error who just hit the "cracking voice" phase of hormonal imbalance.
Sadly, I've no longer any safe place. If it weren't for the fact that my legs appear to have gotten up and gone out to the kitchen for a ham sandwich without me, I would probably be picking through the remains of my TV for the remains of my laptop. Fortunately, (I suppose) I'm unable to walk right now.
Ah, well.
Time to test a mixture of Oxycontin, peyote, black-tar and Excedrin PM.
In the quest of true scientific knowledge, I am spending the time I'm not actively trying to change reality to fit my whims, I'm watching Cartoon Network (What the hell else am I supposed to be doing, other than repeatedly soiling my pants and wondering how I'm going to plug the holes in my walls left by the numerous crossbow bolts I've fired through the night before my flatmate comes home.)
In the middle of what currently passes for an episode of The Transformers (which, I believe is going by the title Transformers: We're not Even Trying Anymore), an ad comes on for something called Kids Bop, though it does have some number after it.
For those of you who have never experienced the teeth-on-a-chalkboard experience of one of these ads, let me explain it to you:
There is a group of pre-and-meta-pubescent ankle-biters singing along with what passes for pop music, looking like I probably do right now (meaning twitching, drooling and covered in my own filth), and trying to sell you a CD of this.
As disturbing a concept as this seems to be, it's worse than you think.
As I said, there's a number after the title of this thing, something along the lines of Kids Bop 243, which leads me to the even more frightening aspect of this concept.
People are actually buying this crap!
Somewhere, someone saw these rejects from The Mickey Mouse Club, and thought "Hey! That looks like something I want to listen to!"
Now, I live in Nashville, which means that I am exposed to musical root canals on a daily basis. As irritating as country music is, especially if its country music that's so bad even country music radio stations wouldn't touch it, I've always rested easy in the thought that at least the screeching cacophony wasn't being howled at me in my living room by some genetic error who just hit the "cracking voice" phase of hormonal imbalance.
Sadly, I've no longer any safe place. If it weren't for the fact that my legs appear to have gotten up and gone out to the kitchen for a ham sandwich without me, I would probably be picking through the remains of my TV for the remains of my laptop. Fortunately, (I suppose) I'm unable to walk right now.
Ah, well.
Time to test a mixture of Oxycontin, peyote, black-tar and Excedrin PM.
Labels: Bad Music, Drugs, Kids Bop, Rev Darko, The Dark Side
posted by Rev. Darko at
6:40 AM
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