Auto-Tune: yet another devious and malevolent creation from the Swedes. Everyone has heard its demonic cry, making even the most talented of singers and performers sound like tone-deaf preteen girls, and thus, everyone knows it must be destroyed. Except for one race of people...
Jews.
Let me start from the beginning. You see, Swedes pride themselves on making great music. Unfortunately, they do not do it very often. Last century, their sole memorable contribution was ABBA, and I'm not sure, but I think one or two of those guys might've been Norwegian.
So, a very evil mensch named Taargus Vun Queefenburg invented a way to make every singer sound exactly the same, because most Swedes are Neo-Nazis, and corporate-mandated homogenized music is just one step towards resurrecting Adolph Hitler; thus spake the wisemen.
At first, only shitty, talentless Swedes and T-Pain used it. Then every rapper tried to use it. Then every shitty singer tried to use it. And then everyone with a MacBook got a hold of it, and shit went crazy, nigga! The beast tasted corporate viability, and it tasted good! It's like when you cut yourself with a kitchen knife accidentally and have your dog lick the blood off. Soon, that dog is biting your crotch at night in an attempt to get more of your sweet, sweet plasma. This is especially true of Vampire dogs.
This corporate viability was especially sought after by the Hook-Nosed Ones. They, with their totalitarian control over every form of media including music and show business, thought the Auto-Tune was a great way to sell recording contracts to talentless white FaceBook whores. They get money, radio gets another annoyingly high-pitched Auto-Tune song, and MTV gets another clap-having jezebel that can look for love amongst forty men selected at random via CraigsList.
Now, one can barely make it through an adult movie without hearing some jackoff wailing away with the Auto-Tune on high. I hate you, Auto-Tune. It wasn't bad enough that you destroyed popular music, but now you take my porn? How am I supposed to concentrate on keeping my erection throughout a two-hour shoot, let alone pretend that the black midget beneath me is the chick from Juno, with you blaring your computerized notes in my ear via XM Satellite Radio? You suck!
I am posting this as a warning to you, Auto-Tune. I am declaring a fatwa on you if you don't back the fuck up and let our rappers rhyme about white women and zanax in peace! I've done this before you know; ever wonder what happened to good ol' Taargus Vun Queefenburg? I had him killed, bitch. My fans are crazy, dude, you don't even know! One word from my sacred lips and every boyfriend-less fat chick with emo hair and their fatter, balder, older brothers will descend upon you like crows on a cornfield! As Wayne Brady once said, brace yourself, fool!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Die Scenester Bitch
To answer your first question, no, I haven't started blogging in German, as I am not a Neo-Nazi, nor am I planning a school shooting (yet). The title of this entry is a plea to the Gods of The Inter-Webs to help me smite these ugly, pimple-face, four-eyed scenester kids, so that I may never be forced to punch my monitor in an attempt to remove them from the screen again.
Everyone knows a scenester kid. Most all dress like they're blind or high, and they all gel their hair into little shiny helmets. I suppose this would be to protect their ears from me screaming, 'DIE FAGGOT!' every time I see them at Wal-Mart. Either that or to protect them from the shopping carts I chuck at them.
All scenesters are exactly the same: vapid, mindless crackers who wander malls like it's Dawn of the Dead. They wear skinny jeans, because they think they're attractive, not realizing that they're just making their asses look huge and making their fat guts waterfall out from under their strangely tight shirts, emblazoned with bands that either a)suck, or b)they don't listen to. Hey, check me out, guys! I'm wearing an NWA shirt, even though I don't listen to them, because it's ironic. Who's ever heard of a rich white kid who likes rap? I'm so original! Bitch, Eazy-E would pop a cap in your chunky ass had he not died a painful, AIDS-related death fifteen years ago.
If you are uncertain about your friends or familial relations feelings towards the scenester menace, then look at their FaceBook page, which everyone has now, because everyone (self included) collapsed to peer pressure. On their page, do they post pictures they've clearly taken themselves while in the bathroom holding the camera sideways? Do these pictures involve them showing off their ginormo tits, buck teeth, and hairy arms? Do they post essays about how much they love State Radio, My Chemical Romance, or worse, Nirvana? Finally, do they still rant about how much they fucking hate George Bush, or as I once saw, Paris Hilton? If so, get your gun and bar the doors... you've got a scenester!
In closing, I'd like to ask the World Bank for money again. After reading this and heeding my advice, surely Bono or whoever the hell runs that Jewish circle-jerk will see that the scenesters must be eliminated, lest our malls be unsafe forever (or until MTV says it isn't cool). I will need $100 billion dollars to fund my one man war, which may seem like a lot, but trust me, you're saving on labor here. Only I need to strike out against the scenester menace, because scenester kids are pussies who don't fight back, and who, when challenged, skateboard away, and then complain on MySpace about how mean cops are and how they totally would've kicked the pig's ass if he didn't have a gun. Kisses!
P.S. Okay, about the Nirvana thing. I feel like I need to address this because for some strange reason everyone who connects to the Internet outside of Starbucks and reads blogs on their laptop listens to Nirvana, which they shouldn't, because they're just buying into what Nirvana stood against. Also, Kurt is dead, and their songs all sounded alike. That might not be so bad, if people would just stop making Mr. Cobain out to be a fucking messiah. He was a drug addict who shot himself out of fear for what might happen if he went on tour still addicted to heroin. Whoopeee. Another dead rockstar. Get the fuck over it.
Everyone knows a scenester kid. Most all dress like they're blind or high, and they all gel their hair into little shiny helmets. I suppose this would be to protect their ears from me screaming, 'DIE FAGGOT!' every time I see them at Wal-Mart. Either that or to protect them from the shopping carts I chuck at them.
All scenesters are exactly the same: vapid, mindless crackers who wander malls like it's Dawn of the Dead. They wear skinny jeans, because they think they're attractive, not realizing that they're just making their asses look huge and making their fat guts waterfall out from under their strangely tight shirts, emblazoned with bands that either a)suck, or b)they don't listen to. Hey, check me out, guys! I'm wearing an NWA shirt, even though I don't listen to them, because it's ironic. Who's ever heard of a rich white kid who likes rap? I'm so original! Bitch, Eazy-E would pop a cap in your chunky ass had he not died a painful, AIDS-related death fifteen years ago.
If you are uncertain about your friends or familial relations feelings towards the scenester menace, then look at their FaceBook page, which everyone has now, because everyone (self included) collapsed to peer pressure. On their page, do they post pictures they've clearly taken themselves while in the bathroom holding the camera sideways? Do these pictures involve them showing off their ginormo tits, buck teeth, and hairy arms? Do they post essays about how much they love State Radio, My Chemical Romance, or worse, Nirvana? Finally, do they still rant about how much they fucking hate George Bush, or as I once saw, Paris Hilton? If so, get your gun and bar the doors... you've got a scenester!
In closing, I'd like to ask the World Bank for money again. After reading this and heeding my advice, surely Bono or whoever the hell runs that Jewish circle-jerk will see that the scenesters must be eliminated, lest our malls be unsafe forever (or until MTV says it isn't cool). I will need $100 billion dollars to fund my one man war, which may seem like a lot, but trust me, you're saving on labor here. Only I need to strike out against the scenester menace, because scenester kids are pussies who don't fight back, and who, when challenged, skateboard away, and then complain on MySpace about how mean cops are and how they totally would've kicked the pig's ass if he didn't have a gun. Kisses!
P.S. Okay, about the Nirvana thing. I feel like I need to address this because for some strange reason everyone who connects to the Internet outside of Starbucks and reads blogs on their laptop listens to Nirvana, which they shouldn't, because they're just buying into what Nirvana stood against. Also, Kurt is dead, and their songs all sounded alike. That might not be so bad, if people would just stop making Mr. Cobain out to be a fucking messiah. He was a drug addict who shot himself out of fear for what might happen if he went on tour still addicted to heroin. Whoopeee. Another dead rockstar. Get the fuck over it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Julie & Julia: Worse Than Beverly Hills Chihuahua
Amy Adams: "What if I cook my way through Julia Child's cookbook in one year and write a blog about it. Is that crazy?"
Boyfriend: "No, but it's incredibly boring."
Amy Adams:"......"
There's a reason this scene was cut from Julie & Julia, and that is because Hollywood hates the truth, and the truth is that this movie is an asinine, inane piece of derivative horseshit. Only one person in the world should be forced to watch this crap, and his name rhymes with 'Okama Bin Waden'.
The basic plot, and I stress basic, is that Amy Adams is, oh no!, a pretty woman with a problem. She can't fit in. Her boss is mean to her! Boo fucking hoo! Also, her boyfriend listens to her, and is very good looking. Some girls just can't catch a break, huh? But guess what? Our heroine Julia loves to cook! Wow, how original; a woman cooking. Anyhoo, Julia decides the only way to solve her 'problems' is to cook terribly fattening food and blog about it to her annoying, nasally-voiced bitch friends. So she does. The end.
Last I checked, in order for a movie to be entertaining, people need to do things. That's just common sense. But here we see some dumb cunt fritter away her life for an entire year and becoming involved in a delusional relationship with a dead woman who teaches her life lessons, like 'Don't Be Afraid To Try New Things'. Seriously, why does a thirty-something single woman need to learn that? If she did, wouldn't she have learned that years ago? Another 'helpful lesson' the dead broad drops on the idiot is, apparently, to drink cooking sherry. That one was shocking, even to me. Why in holy fuck would anyone drink cooking sherry? It's salty, vinegary, and loaded with pure alcohol. No one in their right mind would, but then again, Julie talks to a dead woman. Now that I think about it, drinking cooking sherry seems perfectly in character.
My last issue with this film is the horrible message it sends to women, namely that people care what they think. This bitch has it in her skull that if she starts a website whose sole purpose is to inform people of her day-to-day cooking habits is a good way to spend a year. If any woman, or man for that matter, thinks this is a good idea, they should be shot alongside their fellow Mongoloids.
Bottom line: this movie is about a desperately lonely rich bitch whose head is so far up her own ass with vanity that she thinks every little moment of her life, including the many times a day she talks to VHS tapes (in 2009?) of a dead French woman, is worth reading about. It is marketed to all people with vaginas and low IQs. It should not have been created, in part or in whole, and everyone involved should be Sodomized to death by polar bears with chainsaws for cocks.
Darsh gives it an 'F', as in Fuckin' terrible. Tune in next week when I review a movie that actually looks good, and I'm sure is going to sweep next year's Oscars: G-Force, the movie about talking guinea pigs who have been experimented on by the government! Cubs win!
Boyfriend: "No, but it's incredibly boring."
Amy Adams:"......"
There's a reason this scene was cut from Julie & Julia, and that is because Hollywood hates the truth, and the truth is that this movie is an asinine, inane piece of derivative horseshit. Only one person in the world should be forced to watch this crap, and his name rhymes with 'Okama Bin Waden'.
The basic plot, and I stress basic, is that Amy Adams is, oh no!, a pretty woman with a problem. She can't fit in. Her boss is mean to her! Boo fucking hoo! Also, her boyfriend listens to her, and is very good looking. Some girls just can't catch a break, huh? But guess what? Our heroine Julia loves to cook! Wow, how original; a woman cooking. Anyhoo, Julia decides the only way to solve her 'problems' is to cook terribly fattening food and blog about it to her annoying, nasally-voiced bitch friends. So she does. The end.
Last I checked, in order for a movie to be entertaining, people need to do things. That's just common sense. But here we see some dumb cunt fritter away her life for an entire year and becoming involved in a delusional relationship with a dead woman who teaches her life lessons, like 'Don't Be Afraid To Try New Things'. Seriously, why does a thirty-something single woman need to learn that? If she did, wouldn't she have learned that years ago? Another 'helpful lesson' the dead broad drops on the idiot is, apparently, to drink cooking sherry. That one was shocking, even to me. Why in holy fuck would anyone drink cooking sherry? It's salty, vinegary, and loaded with pure alcohol. No one in their right mind would, but then again, Julie talks to a dead woman. Now that I think about it, drinking cooking sherry seems perfectly in character.
My last issue with this film is the horrible message it sends to women, namely that people care what they think. This bitch has it in her skull that if she starts a website whose sole purpose is to inform people of her day-to-day cooking habits is a good way to spend a year. If any woman, or man for that matter, thinks this is a good idea, they should be shot alongside their fellow Mongoloids.
Bottom line: this movie is about a desperately lonely rich bitch whose head is so far up her own ass with vanity that she thinks every little moment of her life, including the many times a day she talks to VHS tapes (in 2009?) of a dead French woman, is worth reading about. It is marketed to all people with vaginas and low IQs. It should not have been created, in part or in whole, and everyone involved should be Sodomized to death by polar bears with chainsaws for cocks.
Darsh gives it an 'F', as in Fuckin' terrible. Tune in next week when I review a movie that actually looks good, and I'm sure is going to sweep next year's Oscars: G-Force, the movie about talking guinea pigs who have been experimented on by the government! Cubs win!
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