As I was walking down the street today, I was suddenly seized by very real and overpowering pangs of intense self-loathing upon realizing that I was humming the chorus to the song, "This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race," by those MTV icons/flaming-minions-of-Satan, Fall Out Boy. Upon realizing my actions, I immediately dropped to the pavement, placed my mouth firmly on the gutter and waited for someone to come along and violently curb-stomp me to death -- the only way, I feel, anyone can atone for such egregious behavior. Alas, no one took me up on my offer, so after three and a half hours, I got up, brushed myself off and walked back down the street, marveling at the remarkable heights of douchebaggery I had achieved and wishing that someday soon, at some celebrity function, Kanye West and Jay-Z would flip the script on their Fall Out Boy love-fest and shiv Pete Wentz in a bathroom stall.
And why, you ask, did I have such an awful song by such an awful band in my head? Good question, fictional hot chick with big boobs who I always picture asking me things. Because the CD player in my car is broken, which means that for the past three days I have been relegated to the killing fields that are Denver radio stations. Outside of Rockies games, I haven't listened to Denver radio since I was in high school. Returning to the airwaves now, I can only imagine, is like waking up out of a coma, all Robert De Niro-in-Awakenings style, and realizing that Bush has turned everything to shit and there's no hope whatsoever, so you might as well skip all the thought-provoking and emotional interaction you'll experience with Robin Williams, who plays your doctor, and just go back to sleep. KTCL, 97.3, Alice, that one on 107.5 that makes the booty go clap: They all fucking blow. Oh, and 99.5 The Mountain? Thanks for giving us three hours with no commercials except for the forty-seven commercials where you remind us that there are no commercials and aren't we glad we're not listening to a station that has no commercials? Dude, like, soooo fucking glad.
So today I drove my Honda to John Elway Honda and demanded to speak to John Elway. They said he wasn't there, and that he no longer really has any affiliation with the place. I asked them if I could at least speak to Karl Mecklenburg, but they just stared at me. Finally I told them that my six-CD carousel was broken and if I had to hear the fucking Fray again that guy Isaac Slade was really going to have to figure How To Save A Life. They said they didn't have the parts in stock, but they would order them, and give me a call in three days. I asked them if I could talk to Steve Atwater. They told me I should really get going.
Three days! Three more days of this shit! Three more days of shock-jock assholes, three more days of mindless, incessant St. Paddy's hype, three more days of wondering if the Panic! At the Disco occurred because everyone was so terrified they would keep playing music.
Enough is enough. I cannot stands no more. Today, I will go to the iPod store and buy a connecting piece for my car and end this orgy of drivel once and for all.
And then I'll go home and watch TRL. -- Adam Cayton-Holland
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