The La’s

Fuck “Sixpence None The Richer”. Fuck anyone who likes that shit. Fuck “Butterfly Kisses” and Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance”. Fuck any music that sounds like it should accompany some family’s slide show about their dead/grown-up/gone-to-college child.

I would add “fuck Zooey (augh) Deschanel”, but I haven’t heard much from her in a few years, so I guess she wasn’t conveniently harassed by any men whom the media wants to destroy. Fuck me for telling everyone what a “great singer” she was after Elf first came out, mere weeks before she and her goddamn bangs would be almost literally everywhere. Fuck her parents, for giving her a name they saw on the cover of a Salinger novel, which 99.9% of people can’t pronounce properly. Thank Christ she cut her bangs and realized that without them, no one knows who the fuck she is.

The following is the only version of “There She Goes” that should exist. It’s supposed to be sung by a man, because men have to strain to hit the high notes, thus giving the song real meaning and import. It’s not supposed to be sung by a girl, because it’s too easy for them. It completely robs the song of its emotional power. You want to make it a “gender issue”, go right the fuck ahead. Go ahead and ruin something else because it’s unique to someone other than you. Go ahead and bring everything down to base level, so that nothing truly inspires anymore. God forbid music is inspirational to anyone besides teen girls, the one group on earth that needs the least inspiration.

Pandering to teen girls, because they squander the most on music, is why we have to hear the shit we hear today. No one bothers to instruct them in any form of music appreciation. It’s more profitable to sell them music as you would make-up or sanitary napkins. In fact, it’s done almost exactly the same way. Naive naturalism, grade-school emotions, phony over-inflated “empowerment”, and some hired female singing in a cutesy, childlike voice. It’s Hank Williams Jr. bellowing “ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOOTBAAAAALLLLL” after successful gender-reassignment surgery. Or Bob Seger croaking out “Like A Rock” as Fords roll of the assembly line, sparks flying off freshly-welded metal. It’s the same fucking shit.

Speaking of ruined, I’m wearing a “Watchmen” shirt in the first panel. That “awesome” director Zack Snyder; where is he now? Has he been “#metoo’d” yet? Ya don’t say. Good thing he has all that well-earned respect to fall back on, and wasn’t a flash-in-the-pan Hollywood degenerate with less talent than your average USC dropout. Good thing he added that shoe on the bony remains of the dead girl’s leg being gnawed by dogs. I mean, how could any of us tell what the fuck it was in the original, classic graphic novel? What were we supposed to do, engage in critical thinking? Who does that anymore?

Oh well. There she goes again.

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Filed under Bad Influences, Comix Classic & Current, Don't Know Don't Care, Faint Signals, Girls of BIUL, Nostalgic Obsessions, Thousand Listen Club