Unhelpful

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother died on March 30.

Her teeth died 32 years ago. They will be interred together.

Argue

First there was goatse.cx.

Then there was analse.cx and oralse.cx.

r33t.org proudly presents its own entry into web lexiscatological entertainment:

xbo.cx

XPerience it now before Microsoft sues us.

Argue

Today I met the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.

I found her in a drug store while looking for shaver blade replacements as I was walking past the hair care products.

She was waiting for me in aisle six.

I am at once compelled and frightened by my feelings for the Funky Chunky Girl. I am intrigued by the dichotomy in her personality evinced by the dual nature of her portraits. She is in this not unlike a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, where the texture and goodness of the wheaty side is locked in an epic struggle for dominance of the breakfast table with its Dionysian frosted side, packed with tasty guilt-ridden sweetness.

Observe:

Funky.

Chunky.

The complexity and depth of the anguish and rage evident in the funky side magnifies the innate charm and carefree enjoyment of life which the chunky side so clearly captures.

Please, uncaring universe, grant me the love I so desperately deserve. Release unto me the Funky Chunky Girl.

Thanks in advance.Argue

I am not exactly a huge fan of musicians - in particular successful musicians - making songs about what a pain in the ass life as a musician is. This sort of crying in the beer is a common pitfall, it turns out. Several artists I like fall prey to it. Others I don’t much care for seem to have made a goddamn career out of it.

My general reaction to a song about the trials and tribulations of being in the music industry is “yeah, you’ve got it really rough, darling”. I’m not a materialist drone who thinks that wealth and fame is the key to happiness; my distaste for overtly industry-esque songwriting comes primarily from my aggravation that the artist is barking up the wrong tree.

Is your record company robbing you blind? I hear you. Did agents and managers made more money off your last album than you did? I’ve watched enough VH-1 documentaries and talked with enough people employed in the industry to know how it goes down. Does your net worth go down after an album and up only after an exhausting tour recoups debts via sales of merchandise? I agree: that’s fucked up. Do I want to hear you preach to the choir? No, not a single note.

This brings me to the most unforgivable of musical sins, though: songs about what a bitch it is being on tour. I think there should be a rule. Every artist guilty of such a song should be eaten alive by really slow caterpillars, immediately, with no chance for appeal. This would make the world a better place, don’t you think?

If nothing else, there’d be a lot more time spent on listening to odd music about flying saucers. That’d be a marked improvement.

Argue