And Now Who Is Left In The Music World That'll Sing Love Songs To A Rat??!???

Michael Jackson.......He's either moonwalking in Heaven right now or experiencing an episode of flaming hair deja vous somewhere in Hell. I really can't say for sure. All I know is that I'll be plugged into my iPod until the overly dramatized and hysterical fervor surrounding the passing of the supposed King of Pop dies down.
He was the King of Pop. I'm the Queen of Poop. I certainly hope that my passing will be trumpeted by an equal amount of tear-soaked hubbub.
Really, enduring the endless parade of stone-faced and somber commentators remark one after another about the "tragic" passing of Michael and how music's brightest light has just been extinguished is just a little more than I can bear.
These are the same people who thought nothing about capitalizing on the salacious stories surrounding Michael for the past decade. These are the same talking heads who laughed uproariously at all the Michael Jackson jokes.
It's only been a few hours since the man breathed in his last breath and I'm already irritated at the less than sincere weeping and wailing rollicking over the airwaves coupled with endless MJ music marathons. So completely gag-worthy.
Even the alternative stations are getting in on the all-Michael-all-the-frickin-time bandwagon by playing the worst Michael Jackson covers ever heard outside of the Tone Deaf Karaoke Club. There is no escape. Chris Cornell's sllllooooww mooooo version of "Billie Jean" blows. Ditto for Fall Out Boy's pathetic attempt to revive the mercifully long dead ditty, "Beat It." Vampire Weekend performed an electronica version of "I Want You Back." Sadly it's every bit as bad as it sounds. Alien Ant Farm remains the sole exception in this category because their "Smooth Criminal" remake rocks.
Child molesters shouldn't be so slobberingly revered regardless of how wonderful their musical talent is. Sorry. There's a valid reason that Michael sang "Pretty Young Thing (PYT)" and not PMT ( Pretty Middle-Aged Thing).
The greatest memory of Michael Jackson--the one that'll stick with me forever and for always?
That would have to be the day my oldest son Buster thought that Michael was some sort of advocate for the Jewish way of life. He was absolutely crushed that the news reports kept discussing comments made by Jackson that would seem to indicate that he was, in fact, rather anti-Semitic.
Confused, Buster turned to me and said "What do they mean that Michael Jackson doesn't like Jewish people?!?!? He's got that song dedicated to them: I Wanna Rock With JEWS!
Sing it with me gentle readers with your solitary single sequined glove raised high in the air. Do it to pay your respects for the passing of dear old Michael Jackson.....sing it loud, sing it proud.
"I WANNA ROCK WITH JEWS.......ALL NIGHT!"



R.I.P. MICHAEL JACKSON

I Reached Into The Record Bin And Unexpectedly Got POOPELOO All Over My Hands!

You should always exercise extreme caution when rifling through a crate of old records......you just never know what sort of sensory horrors may be lurking within!

Sure, I completely anticipated running my grubby little Infidel fingers over a hairy Bee Gee chest or two or three, and maybe exposing one of Herman's Hermits to the light of day......."Something Tells Me I'm Into Something Good......." but, I most certainly was not expecting to have my hand land in a big pile of old POOPELOO. Fresh and new POOPELOO is fine. Crusty vintage POOPELOO reeks.
Notice the record cover? It's POOPELOO to the third power!!!!!
You can just imagine some of the very unfortunate conversations that took place upon POOPELOO's release:

• I put POOPELOO on the record player. It sounded like crap.
• Don't you know who I am? I made POOOPELOO! (Yeah, you and every other human, freak.)
• I found POOPELOO on vinyl at the record store today! Ewww, that's nasty. Did you complain?
• Hey, did you release a 7-inch POOPELOO? (Perhaps you should consult a doctor about that.)
• Have you listened to POOPELOO lately? (Oh, is that what you call it? I call it 'The Plop Plop')
• Hey, wanna do the POOPELOO with me? (Uh, no thanks. My anti-diarrheal medicine has just kicked in.)
• Every time I put POOPELOO on the record player it scratches and skids. I freakin hate POOPELOO skid marks.

Thank your lucky stars that records weren't produced in a scratch-n-sniff format. It might have worked out okay for "Strawberry Fields Forever" but POOPELOO, not so much.

Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the more discriminate Antique Mall shoppers I found a box that held quite a remarkable assortment of International cheese.

Most notable is our fine feathered friend, Paul Severs. Flanking Paul on either side of his forehead are golden blond wings that could potentially start flapping in the wind at any given moment, thus elevating him above the Non-Oh La La Zo Sexy riff raff.

After all, you little people should know that you're not truly Oh La La Zo Sexy material like Paul if you're not wearing a powder blue mesh undershirt that doubles as a fish net/laundry bag/chest hair trap along with a twee Mickey Mouse pin on your lapel. You also have to make sure to narrow your eyes for the camera while positioning your mouth in an awkward and uncomfortable grimace like you just ate a bad crepe over at the Oh La La Zo Sexy Cafe. Sure, it may appear as though Paul is squinting at the sun but he's actually working his potently seductive allure.

Please, allow me to remind you just who is the master and commander of all things Oh La La Zo Sexy. It's most certainly not you and me, my friend.

Although, in Paul's defense, he does have some amazingly rock hard abs. I should know. Just look at the picture, I got my hands all over them!

Stop The Violence.....Join The 'Save The Combos' Commission Today!

Everyone regards Carrie Underwood as some sort of battered and dipped, chicken-fried Southern goody two shoes--however, the maniacal lyrics embedded within the hit song "Before He Cheats" reveals her true deviant nature.

I couldn't care less that she "dug her key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4-wheel drive." No, what I'm talking about is infinitely more maleficent.

People, the truth is Carrie Underwood advocates the senseless murder of innocent bite-sized snack food.

It's unconscionable.

I cringe in horror whenever she flippantly growls out the line "He's teaching her how to shoot a Combo."

Using delectable little morsels of processed cheese as target practice is just wrong. They don't deserve this kind of persecution for simply seeking refuge within the crispy confines of a cracker shell.

Shooting helpless Combo snacks.....is this the new redneck sport of choice? Will there be an officially declared Combos hunting season or will rampant shooting sprees force entire Combo families to cower in fear all year long?

I hope these barbarians at least eat the Combo bounty they so ruthlessly slaughter. The trigger-happy thugs should also make their clothing out of the cellophane Combos bags, you know, in the interest of upholding the highest in hunting ethics

Hanging a Combos trophy above the mantel as a braggy centerpiece will be a difficult proposition for even the most experienced taxidermist to handle since Combos come pre-stuffed and doused in artificial colors and preservatives.

I fear a future where unregulated Combo shooting--spurred on and encouraged by Miss Underwood--leads to the Combos population teetering on the brink of extinction.......I'm going to open up an official Combos sanctuary/wildlife preserve.

In my mouth.

I'm so undeniably altruistic.

Let's join together and stop all this Combo hating, shall we? We tend to oppress that which we don't understand.

I know that the coupling of Oompaloompa orange cheese that resembles a load of ear wax on the end of your Q-tip along with tubular crackers that flunked out of the Flat Cracker Academy may seem a little unorthodox but we should allow the Combos union to flourish in eternal snacky happiness.

Don't hate. Don't discriminate. Don't exterminate.

Coombos: They ain't Funnyuns or fried possum tail, but dangit, they're somebody's junk food baby.

Carrie Underwood and her extreme anti-Combos hate must be halted post haste. I'd rather that the bleach blonde tramp in her song be taught to shoot pork rinds--the bastard child of the snack food world.