Special Thanks Marc J. Ouellette, and sorry Mikey's Dad.
So Miley Cyrus looked like a half finished Macklemore fetus and I didn't know who Alan Thicke** was when I saw this "OUTRAGEOUS" Miley Cyrus performance. To me there is nothing shocking about a shitty, drunk half-of-Gwen-Stefani shaking her little country flap-jack ass on gay Beetlejuices' rancid meat stick.
When I watched it, I couldn't figure out why this was even a thing. I needed to do some research. I proceeded to smoke a bunch of crushed up sleeping pills and stumble to my local library. After some public vomiting and a thirteen hour nap on a pile of books about the Holocaust, I went home and checked the internet, which told me Miley Cyrus was... wait for it, this is going to blow your fucking mind. HANNAH MONTANA.
My understanding is people are more angry at Hannah than Miley. How dare the real slut that Miley Cyrus is, ruin fake Hannah Monatna's pedo-bait country girl image by twerking at Alan Thicke**, who is apparently a less charismatic, syphilitic George Michael. Gross. You could almost hear Billy-Ray's achy heart break.
"Wut I gone 'n done?"
I contend that all that skinny ass shaking and the Gene Simmons tongue sticking out of the bloated, red, drunk Liz Taylor mouth was to distract us from the shitty music.
"Why so serious?"
"Rawrgarrblewarbble Fuuuuuuuck Yooooouuuuu yabbableurp!"
It's like everyone stopped being outraged by the absolutely horrible white girl half rapping half ... ... talking. That's not music, but we didn't care because she like, tried to do what is typically reserved for black women in strip clubs. Forget that, I don't care who twerks, my boner is color blind, but my ears hate shit. Miley Cyrus and Alan Thicke** are shit. THAT is what isn't okay.
Unlike everyone else, I focused on the ear rape I was subjected to, and not the twerking. I had to detox on music that I enjoy. Music I like to listen to when I'm trying to relax, drink a beer, do some writing, and not masturbate to Miley Cyrus. I'm going to basically list off a few albums I used to forget that Alan Thicke** is a real person, and remember the good old days of musical scandals, like Janet's big ass mocha frappaccino titty, and when Britney Spears kissed either Madonna or Cloris Leachman on stage.
Madonna, probably.
You don't have to like it, you just have to agree it's actual music, from a time when auto-tune meant finding the right rate of oscillation on your car radio by punching your younger sibling with your free hand until they found some suitable rock.
"Keep turning the dial you little shit I want some Ramones!"
First up we have Bob Log, specifically, Bob Log III.
SWAG
I'm pretty sure this guy is a sex alien from the inner-space of Denis Quaids alcohol addiction. One man bands always make me wonder what the fuck I'm doing with my life. How do they multi-task like that? If I try and drink something while I'm watching Netflix I will knock myself in the teeth with the cup and manage to somehow spill the television. This guys plays all the instruments. ALL OF THEM. And he's a complete asshole.
Such a dick.
Favourite Quote: "I'm a professional God damnit, I live in a car!"
Next, we have The Smugglers, Selling the Sizzle.
A Canadian pop-rock band from like, around when I learned how to tug my weiner, so it takes me back to a very rewarding time in my life. I broke up with a girl that had a weird mole near her goodies and had to smoke like, two grams of grass and drink a pot of coffee while listening to the "Especially You" track on a constant loop to get the anxiety fueled courage to end it. I never expressed that it was the beauty mark GPS map next to her gitch that was driving my desire to "see other people", but sometimes honesty isn't the best policy.
"Stop, in the name of labiaaaaaa!"
Favourite Quote: "You're sexy enough for sex I can get anywhere."
The Modern Lovers, Self-Titled
The Modern Lovers are a perfect, surreal and talented band in a talentless and non-sensical way. Jonathan Richman is absolutely terrible with a voice that sounds like an autistic child trying to force his dick into a keyhole filled with peanut butter. That's essentially what makes it great. There's a "Ramones before the Ramones" element in the "Government Center" track, Iggy Pop-esque blathering on the "Astral Plane" track.
For serious, though, don't.
Even a "I just came down from a 3 day acid trip and now I'm unemployed and my cat is dead" feeling to the ever depressing and unpopular "I'm Straight" as it drones on like David Cronenberg trying to talk dirty through a ceiling fan.
Exploding head due to dirty Cronenberg sex talk.
Favourite Quote: "Tonight I'm all alone in my room, I'll go insane, if you won't sleep with me I'll still be with you. I'm going to meet you on the Astral Plane."
In conclusion, listen to these albums, don't smoke sleeping pills and never let Cronenberg read Fifty Shades of Grey to you unless you have a death wish. Also Miley Cyrus isn't important enough to slap all over the news while Syria (though comparable to the situation in Alan** Thickes pants) burns. I'm on vacation all next week so hit me up on the book of faces or twitter and maybe we can twerk together or something.
