I Hate Amateur Critics
Is there really anything new under the sun?
Hasn’t everything worth saying already been said?
Haven’t all musical notes already been played?
Radiohead: “Creep” IS REALLY
“Air That I Breathe” (The Hollies)
Green Day: “Brain Stew” IS REALLY
“25 or 6 to 4” (Chicago)
Violent Femmes: “Gone Daddy Gone” IS REALLY
“Blind Man Sitting By The Side Of The Road” (traditional gospel song)
Isley Brothers: “Twist and Shout” IS REALLY
“La Bamba” (Mexican folk song)
Sublime: “Love Is What I Got” IS REALLY
“Lady Madonna” (Beatles)
The Smiths: “How Soon Is Now”: IS REALLY
“Drunken Quint boat scene from Jaws” (John Williams)
Cattleprod: “Donkey Ears” IS REALLY
“Heart and Soul” (every amateur musician that gets near a piano)
I had just gotten off stage and was pouring brewed hops into my temporary grain storage facility when a small shadow sat down beside me.
“I think your last song sucked,” it said.
“Thanks. Do you write music?” I asked, after deciding not to kill him with my legally concealed weapon.
He laughed. “Shit, no!”
“Then I’ll wait until you compose yourself,” I said, smirking at my own wit.
Then I shot him. Partly because I hate amateur critics but mostly just to watch him die.
But right then the bartender asked if I wanted another drink and distracted me, so I missed it and had to shoot another guy who fell behind the pool table and was already dead by the time I got there, so I eventually had to shoot about seven.
Stuff like this always happen to me:
I pick stuff in stores that won’t scan
- One time, I knew the phone was going to ring, and then it did
- I have seen UFO’s (never been probed, but probe curious)
- I once went to the fridge and forgot what for
- Homeless guys always ask me for spare change (there is no such thing as spare change)
Life is exhausting. It has me bent over, ramming its lessons into me without a lubricant and gleefully slapping my ass with insight.
So what is today’s lesson?
Just this: don’t talk to me, just buy me beer.