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Elvis has left the building.

Posted in lyrics by YTAH on July 16, 2008
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Okay, it’s official: Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts just had sex. That’s right, people, pack up your troubles, your cares, and your children, for the Coming of the Apocalypse is upon us. How do I know this, you ask; what was the final clue that convinced me all Hell had been unleashed upon the earth? By which signs and portents were the arrival of the Four Horsepersons revealed to me? I know this, dear reader, because Mariah Carey now officially has more hits than Elvis. How the fucking fuck did this happen? I mean, is this our fault? Frankly, I’d be tempted to blame you, the buying public, for your atrocious taste in music. I mean, just because it’s ‘disposable income’ doesn’t mean you should dispose of it in the garbage chute that is Mariah Carey’s discography. What kind of a universe is this? Elvis dies from a heart attack on the toilet, Hendrix drowns in his own vomit, but Richard Clayderman lives to a ripe old age? Is it our fault? I mean, Lennon gets shot but we let Paris Hilton live – what the fuck is going on here?

Tokin’ Jesus: The Great Bake-Off in the Sky.
I swear, God’s just fucking with us now.I bet Jesus is sitting up in heaven laughing his ever-holy ass off. “Hey, Peter – Pete, c’m ‘ere. Dude, c’mon, you gotta come see this. No man, bring the whole bag, we’re gonna need all of it. Judas, dude, don’t hog the bong. I know, yeah, we’re all still laughing about that prank with the cross and shit, but that’s no excuse to… Okay, guys, listen, listen. Listen. Remember that time Sinatra said Elvis was a untalented troublemaker and I convinced the old man not to smite him?” Fwoooooooo. “Wait till you see what I just did… Oh man, this is gonna be better than that time we ‘fixed’ the ten commandments… Wait, wait, I got, I’ve got a question.” Oooooooof. “Who’s got more hits, Elvis or the Beatles?” – “Well that depends on whether you’re counting sales for…” – “Oh for fuck’s sake, Paul, when you going to get a sense of humour? God, man, stop being such a fucking drag, dude, seriously. Swear to god, I shoulda had that ass kick you in the head after it spoke to you… Okay, yeah, fine, sorry about spiking your fasting water with acid that time, okay? Okay, I said I’m sorry, okay, fuck, okay? I didn’t know you were gonna see all kinds of floating food and shit. Dude. Dude. Fuck, dude, just take one hit, okay? (Fucking guy needs to loosen up some. Shit. If I’d known you were going to be such a drag I’da sent that mule to pick up those skanks from Galilee instead. Fuck.) So where was I … oh yeah: who’s got more hits? … It’s a joke, see? It’s fucking Mariah Carey! Mariah Carey, man! Hahahahaha! And you know what? You know what’s the best part? You know what her album’s called? Hahaha, wait till you hear this… Man, I can’t believe people could buy this shit…”

See? I told you not making enough funny comedies was going to bite us in the ass. And no, “funny comedy” is not a tautology, as anyone who’s seen a Rob Schneider film would know. We haven’t kept the messiah supplied with laughs, so now his holiness has to make his own fun. As cosmic jokes go, this one ain’t that funny though. (Sorry, Jesus, I know you fancy yourself an amusing fellow, but your material needs some work. I’ll grant you, that time you convinced Peter he could walk on water, that was funny, okay, and I’m sure his expression when he heard that third cock crowing was priceless, but the Michael Jackson jokes are getting old.) But enough blather, and on to the Cosmic Joke of the Day.

MC² equals… this?
Two years ago, Stephen King asked, “Who’s more annoying — Mariah Carey or Crazy Frog? And if they got married, would she be Crazy Mariah or Mariah the Frog?” Well, Steve, my personal vote has to go to Crazy Mariah the Frog this time, if only because that annoying CGI frog has disappeared from my frame of reference, whereas CMTF is still alive and kicking with those stubby pins she calls legs. Talk about shitty lyrics. “Touch my body/ Put me on the floor/ Wrestle me around/ Treat me like a whore.” Okay, so that last line is an improvisation, and probably doesn’t feature in the official lyrics, but it wouldn’t be out of place, and it certainly gives you the basic idea of the rest of the lyrics. Christ. “Throw me on the bed … Let me wrap my thighs/ All around your waist… Boy you can put me on you/ Like a brand new white tee/ I’ll hug your body tighter/ Than my favourite jeans.” Way to go with the girl power there, babe. You’ve single-handedly put women’s rights back seven decades.

Okay, so not single-handedly. There’s also this charming woman by the name of Kelly Rowland, whose latest hit contains the lines, “Wanna see me lose my breath, wanna hear me moan?/ Better be ready, willing and able when we get along/ You was talking tough up on in the telephone/ So you better put it in when we get it on…” Jesus fucking Christ. Wait, no, it’s coming to me now – it’s a song called “Work”, and you’re a girl, and you’re singing about sex, so obviously – you’re a whore! Of course – a media whore! Why didn’t I see it right off the bat? Of course, the true poetic grandeur of the song is only revealed in the chorus:

Put it in… Check it baby, get it baby, check it baby, get it (work) Do it baby, do-do it baby get it (go hard)… You gotta get it all the way in, I wanna see you work…

Um, yeah. Thanks. (Vomit.) Would make Wordsworth stab out his eyes and puncture both ear holes.

“Um, no thanks, not with the proverbial 10-foot.”
In the meantime, Mariah’s started to hallucinate. And with terrible grammar to boot: “I want you to caress me/ Like a tropical breeze/ And float away with you/ In the Caribbean Sea”. Um, what’s that, Mariah? You want your lover to float away with himself? Very good. We’ll … try to arrange that. Or something. But wait, here’s an explanation for her loss of sanity: “I know you got that fever for me/ Hundred and two/ And boy I know I feel the same/ My temperature’s through the roof”. So what we have here is a pair of love-birds with the flu – and we all know how more attractive you look when you’re ill. Thanks, crazy person, but keep the fuck away from me. The only way I’m gonna touch you with that snotty nose and puffy face is if you’ve been bathed in undiluted, boiling disinfectant. Having just spent an entire week ill, and still recovering, I am well aware of the charm potential of an infectious disease: Nil. Nothing. That’s because there’s nothing charming about mucous, and hallucinations brought on by fever are overrated.

You know her last album was called The Emancipation of Mimi? You know why? Because it’s all “me-me-me”. The only thing she’s been emancipated from is her sanity. Because god knows, even though she’s been struck down by a disfiguring illness, she still imagines herself to be irresistible; so much so that she’s convinced herself that her imaginary lover is spying on her: “If there’s a camera up in here/ Then it’s gonna leave with me/ When I do/ If there’s a camera up in here/ Then I’d best not catch this flick/ On YouTube… ‘Cause if you run your mouth and brag/ About this secret rendezvous/ I will hunt you down/ ‘Cause they be all up in my bidness/ Like a Wendy Interview/ But this is private/ Between you and I.” That’s right, her imaginary friend is in on the conspiracy. Paranoia, thy name is … Mimi.

I don’t know why, but that just terrifies the living shit out of me. Mariah Carey calling one of her albums E=mc² is like saying that Frank Sinatra is better than Elvis. Someone is going to get their ass kicked. By the way, if anyone’s still hanging around for the second coming, you already missed it. Yep, that’s right folks: Elvis was the second coming. Hail to the King, baby.

If you missed him, it’s too late for you, I’m afraid. You had your chance, and now the Anti-Christ has made his way to earth in the form of a glittery, pint-sized, shrieky-voiced stiletto-fanatic and living disco ball. Because you have failed to worship at the alter of The Groovy One, the world will be plunged into darkness, a thousand years of torment and hell, which is proclaimed by floods, earthquakes, and the arrival of the Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse: Britney (Pestilence), Lindsay (War), Paris (Famine), and Miley “daughter of that guy who sang Achy-Breaky Heart” Cyrus (AKA Death). These people are sufficient justification for a complete uprising against the current music industry. Hell, it’s your sacred duty, your part in the war for humanity, to undermine their corporate models through piracy on a grand scale. Besides – you really think Paris puke-fucking Hilton would’ve released an album if she’d only make money from it every time she performed it in public? Music piracy isn’t just a good way to avoid buying shitty music or saving money that you can later donate to charity (ha-ha), it’s also a way to force shitty musos to make money selling fast food rather than offend our ears.

(You should, however, buy local music, of course, but only if it isn’t shit. Yeah I see you with that Steve Hofmeyr album, cunt-face. Put it down and go boil your face.)

Of course, it’s all too late now. Welcome to hell, shoppers. We hope you ** cough cough ** enjoy your stay. Fuckers.

[Originally posted on on Tuesday, May 06, 2008.]


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