What’s that you say? You’ve missed me? Well, that’s nice to hear. Sure it is. It’s always nice to be missed. Where have I been? Oh, thanks for asking. As some of you may recall, two weeks ago I monetized this blog and since then I’ve been traveling the world, funding the trip with my new source of revenue. It’s been wonderful. For the ten days it’s been just my manservant Claudio and I in my new solid gold, private zeppelin, the Monitor. Of course, it’s fully staffed with waiters, busboys and prostitutes, but I don’t deal directly with them. Claudio handles all my transactions now. Dealing with money is so tacky, you know? Of course you don’t. Listen, when you get to a certain level of fiduciary excess, you learn these things. It’s like when your dick gets to be thirteen inches long, you learn that you need to make sure it doesn’t drop into the toilet water while you’re dumping. But, most of you wouldn’t know about that either, and that’s fine. There’s no need to concern yourselves with the trivialities of the elite few, right? Right. Good. Glad that’s settled.
My DJ on the Monitor, a german fellow with whimsical hair and endless colorful suits of leather clothing, turned me onto a new sound while we were over Aburiria scattering Krugerands down on the villages in hopes of causing riots for our amusement. It was a song called “good girls go bad” by an artist known as Cobra Starship. Man, shit. Man. Wowzers. That shit’s pretty fucking catchy, innit?
Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Something like this, probably: “Cobra fucking starship, dude? Seriously? Seriously? Listen, man, I put up with your lil wayne bullshit and your crap about Britney Spears and all that but this is TOO FAR. You don’t like Cobra Starship. That shit’s garbage. Period. End of story. Move on. You mentioned earlier that there were whores on your zeppelin. Expand on that.” Well, firstly, sure. I’ll get to the whores, but secondly. Nope. You’re wrong. The german knows what I like, and man, fuck me if I don’t like that song. That bitch from whatever that show is has a pretty radical and sexy vocal delivery (only in that song…The german played me a song from her album which was unlistenable jazzy, late 80’s crap that sounds like the inoffensive grossness that moms put on before they masturbate in the tub) and sure, overall, the song’s got a VERY Bloodhound Gang quality. AND the weird sample is highly reminiscent of the Pee Wee Herman sample in “Just Lose It” by Eminem, and yeah, the song is childish, but really, honestly none of that matters. When the German puts it on, I start tapping my foot. When my bathers wake me up in the night for my midnight penis cleansing it’s stuck in my head. You get the idea. And I don’t feel guilty. Nope. It’s not a guilty pleasure, because, as of course you don’t know, money removes the need for guilt. It’s like when you get a dog and you can throw out the mop and broom. Or how when you get a television you can throw away all your books. So therefore, I’d classify the song as a pleasure, a guilt-free pleasure.
Now, the german also played me another song by the same artist, called Hot Mess. This song. Man. Fuck. Shit, man. Wow. Okay, it’s not as good as the first song, given. But man. It’s tapped into the zeitgeist of what’s popular right now in a way I can NOT believe. This Saporta guy is some sort of super genius. I had Claudio schedule us a meeting. I flew him, via luxury airboat to meet us in Tibet where we dined on the endangered flesh of tigers among the clouds. Turns out, I know this fucking guy. I’ve known him forever. I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was in a band called Humble Beginnings. How far we’ve both come since those days in those various gymnasiums and VFW’s in New Jersey. He’s a megastar with a number one song and I’m an advertising genius with hordes of devoted slaves and followers. Man, humble beginnings indeed.
See, the thing that’s blowing my mind here, when I listen to this pair of Cobra Starship songs is the following: This dude is my age. How the FUCK can a dude my age write songs like this? I’m not hating on it. Sincerely, I’m impressed as shit. I mean, “You’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you and I’m all, ‘hot damn, I’ma make you my boo.”????? DUDE! That shit’s hilarious. And timely. And yes. Yes yes yes yes, it’s gonna age poorly and the whole thing’s kind of a joke and all that, but at the end of the day that shit don’t matter because that dude’s sitting on a pile of money the size of the furnace that powers the Monitor. And money, everyone, alleviates the need for everything else, as we’ve mentioned before. So, Good on ya, Gabe. Seriously. Seriously. That shit’s impressive as hell.
Okay, I’m being telegraphed to let me know that the Monitor is waiting on the roof to take me to Panama City for lunch, so I have to bow out. Good to see you all again. See you tomorrow.
Oh, and thanks for coming out to the shows. They were a blast. And finally, congratulations to Ryan and Anne Kelly on what’s sure to be an unbelievably happy and successful marriage. Love you both.