ASSHOLE MUSIC.

So this dumb cockroach looking motherfucker Lil Wayne wants to release 7 albums next year. This motherfucker looks like one of those voodoo shrunken heads and shit. Bitch you look like my mop.

Similes aside, this is the problem with music today. Namely hip-hop and pop. What the fuck happened to the artistic motherfuckin integrity of music? Correct me if I’m wrong, but music is still an art form. Art takes inspiration. Art takes hard work. Art takes trial and error. Art takes failure after failure. I can’t even turn the radio on anymore because the bullshit coming out my speakers sounds like two mating hippos in autotune. Dumb fucks like this guy put out albums in a day, talking the same stupid bullshit over shitty GarageBand tracks. Bitch I recognize that loop, I’ve got it on my iMac too, ho. I change the station and some other reggae-wannabee-POS was screaming “Me put me lighters in dee air. Me waive dem shits round like me juss don't care.” Bitch, I care. Put your fucking lighters away you’re contributing to global warming, ho. Rastafarians need to learn mo’ bettah’ English.

NUTSACK TACOS!

Dis Doritos Locos Shit.

Yea I know what you’re thinking. This shit is good. Well you’re a dumb fuck and you’re wrong. Know how I know that? Cuz you don’t have shit else to do but read my dumb fucking blog so you’ve lost any goddamn credibility you might’ve had 5 seconds ago. Sit the fuck back and listen because your dumb ass is about to get schooled in the art of good fast cheap mexican foodology.

I grew up in a small town in the midwest. When Taco Bell opened in my town, it was like the second coming of Jesus. The only Mexican food we were familiar with was shitty ass chimichangas and cheese enchiladas at this methane factory called Chi Chi’s, which I’m pretty goddamn sure translates into “you better hope you get home before our beans work our way through through your colon cuz if not, you about to spray paint a new interior to your car with the beautiful red and brown shades of explosive diarrhea.”

DEEZ JORDANS.

In nineteen-eighty-motherfuckin-nine I was in the fifth grade. Straight ballin. Michael Jordan was (and will always be) the greatest player of all time. If your dumbfuck ass is too young to understand that and is even thinking about saying the word Lebron in my online presence, then stop and punch yourself in the fucking face. Seriously. So I had begged my parents for a year to buy me a pair of Jordans and after my slave-driving dad forced me to mow his piece-of-shit 2 acre lawn like 10 times, he finally agreed. We went to the store, strapped those shiny bitches on my feet (2 sizes too big because my parents were cheap as fuck), and headed home with a smile on my face. This would be my year.

The next morning I rolled to school in them, wondering how they would be received. My expectations were annihilated when this dumb fat kid in my class ran up to me and screamed at the top of his lungs “HOLY SHIT YOU GOT THE JORDANS! YOU’RE AWESOME!” I tried to play it off like I was embarrassed by the spectacle caused by his fat fucking face, but really, I was thrilled with his incredible instant mass marketing campaign.