I realize I’m not really the person to ask about popular music. After all, I’m in love with The Cure, and have been for many, many years. This isn’t a Radiohead or Pearl Jam-esque obsession, because people who get all up in Eddie Vedder’s business are a little insane. Music by The Cure is always relaxing and happy to me, plus it makes me dance in my living room in spasmatic, uncontrollable fashion. Because I’m fairly positive my neighbors lead a boring suburban life and what better way to spice it up than watching the idiot cat-lady through the third floor windows?
It’s just I get confused by some forms of music. I spend the entire length of the song thinking about the circumstances that had to occur to get this idiotic representation of the human race a recording contract and by the time I’m done with my thought process, the song is over times four. Not all of it is bad, obviously. Take the 'popular' music stations, for example. Some of the music is nice, inspiring what I like to refer to as my non-death-metal head-banging antics. Some of it even makes me wish that seats didn’t have to cup your posterior so closely, thereby preventing the posterior from shaking it like a salt shaker should so obviously be shaken.
But the names, MY GOD, the names. A couple of years ago I was totally thrown off by a grown man who went by the name of Chingy. Maybe this is a perfectly acceptable moniker to you, I have no idea. But Chingy sounds an awful lot like dinghy (wee little boat) or dingy (see also: ding bat). These, in turn, make me think of dingleberry, which is what hangs off my cat’s ass after he craps in the litter box and a leftover piece of poo gets stuck in his butt-fur. Hence, I associate Chingy with fur encrusted poopage. Probably not what he was going for.
Now I know I’ve berated some of the more amusing songs on here, ones that verbally express their undying love for strippers with big, brown eyes who twirl around the pole. The song where female genitalia is, I assume, being compared to peanut butter and jelly. Fergie and her inexplicable lyrics about going down on her London Bridge. And now I have a new one to add to the list, per yesterday’s rush hour drive home: a song about a man who’s trying to get to you and that monkey. I’m assuming that, per usual, the never fully described “monkey” is referring to female bits (obviously these men are tired of having penises). Of course, he could actually be referring to a real live monkey, because he’s just kookoo for coco puffs, if coco puffs are the round bits of poop that monkeys will inevitably throw at each other. I seriously doubt he has such animal-preservation motives, however, because the line right before the monkey bit professes how he’s trying to get to you and that booty. This line I totally understand. He’s enthralled with a young woman’s backside and he’s been overcome with the need to get to it, like, right that very second.
Plus, he wants you shake it, shake it, later on tonight.
Showing posts with label complaint department. Show all posts
Showing posts with label complaint department. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I'm funny how, I mean funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you?
I transferred to the new Blogger Beta last Wednesday, mainly because I was wicked tired of logging in and being greeted by a full page SWITCH NOW!!!! advert. It started off as a lonely little link in the upper right hand corner, quietly hovering, patiently waiting for me to choose the new and improved (and probably untested) version of Blogger over the comfortable and familiar home to which I’d become accustomed. Later, it was a slightly larger and only mildly obtrusive link above the dashboard. Then apparently they decided they’d had enough with this subtlety bullshit, let’s take up the whole page with our reminders about easy template editing, layout design and much, much more! Just click here to switch! Easy peasy!
Only it wasn’t easy peasy and little things like making my yahoo email address reappear on my profile were ridiculously complicated. It only wanted to show my secretive gmail address, and it’s called my secretive gmail address because IT’S A SECRET, DAMNIT. I finally gave up and used the layout design screen, which was alright and all, I was just super annoyed with the whole process by then and couldn’t think of anything nice to say.
Thanksgiving came along and that evening I decided to check out my sitemeter. It’s not something I do all time but it’s kind of festive to look at, especially when I see that someone in Tehran found my site by googling “hot girl but sex.” And yes, they spelled it without the second t. I’ve also enjoyed “fabrication sandwich roll ups,” “mormon hobby lobby,” and “fergie + every time my laundry.” I know I harp a lot on Fergie but she just makes it so easy. Big Bird-yellow ruffle dresses. Peeing on herself during a concert. Meth addiction. Spray tans. Plus, someone out there confused her lyrics of “every time you come around my London Brige” with EVERY TIME YOU COME AROUND MY LAUNDRY. This alone is priceless to me.
But as of 10pm on Thanksgiving, I’d had not one single visitor. Kind of strange, I thought. But it is Thanksgiving. Maybe the whole internet population is just doped up on turkey-sleeptophan. Then it was Friday and Saturday and Sunday, and still not one single hit on the sitemeter. I actually got a touch paranoid, thinking maybe there was some vast internet campaign to keep visitors away from the mindless drivel I spew forth on average of three times a week. Sometimes more if you’re lucky.
By Monday afternoon I’d had it. Something was very obviously wrong with the sitemeter and I was totally going to get to the bottom of it, what with my total lack of patience concerning things I don’t understand. Thirty minutes of my lunch break later, it dawned on me that perhaps when I switched to the festive little Beta version, the sitemeter folks just didn’t know what to do with it and, well, I don’t know. There’s probably some techno lingo I could throw in there but I only know enough to sound reasonably intelligent in my meetings and to know that there’s not enough money in the world to convince me to be a programmer.
Anyway. This is all very anticlimactic at this point, but installing a new meter fixed it. I can now go back to cross-state/country/continent stalking. All is right with the world.
Only it wasn’t easy peasy and little things like making my yahoo email address reappear on my profile were ridiculously complicated. It only wanted to show my secretive gmail address, and it’s called my secretive gmail address because IT’S A SECRET, DAMNIT. I finally gave up and used the layout design screen, which was alright and all, I was just super annoyed with the whole process by then and couldn’t think of anything nice to say.
Thanksgiving came along and that evening I decided to check out my sitemeter. It’s not something I do all time but it’s kind of festive to look at, especially when I see that someone in Tehran found my site by googling “hot girl but sex.” And yes, they spelled it without the second t. I’ve also enjoyed “fabrication sandwich roll ups,” “mormon hobby lobby,” and “fergie + every time my laundry.” I know I harp a lot on Fergie but she just makes it so easy. Big Bird-yellow ruffle dresses. Peeing on herself during a concert. Meth addiction. Spray tans. Plus, someone out there confused her lyrics of “every time you come around my London Brige” with EVERY TIME YOU COME AROUND MY LAUNDRY. This alone is priceless to me.
But as of 10pm on Thanksgiving, I’d had not one single visitor. Kind of strange, I thought. But it is Thanksgiving. Maybe the whole internet population is just doped up on turkey-sleeptophan. Then it was Friday and Saturday and Sunday, and still not one single hit on the sitemeter. I actually got a touch paranoid, thinking maybe there was some vast internet campaign to keep visitors away from the mindless drivel I spew forth on average of three times a week. Sometimes more if you’re lucky.
By Monday afternoon I’d had it. Something was very obviously wrong with the sitemeter and I was totally going to get to the bottom of it, what with my total lack of patience concerning things I don’t understand. Thirty minutes of my lunch break later, it dawned on me that perhaps when I switched to the festive little Beta version, the sitemeter folks just didn’t know what to do with it and, well, I don’t know. There’s probably some techno lingo I could throw in there but I only know enough to sound reasonably intelligent in my meetings and to know that there’s not enough money in the world to convince me to be a programmer.
Anyway. This is all very anticlimactic at this point, but installing a new meter fixed it. I can now go back to cross-state/country/continent stalking. All is right with the world.
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