This post is probably going to be used against me in a court of law, in which case I would like to begin by informing the jury that the following are but the trivial rambling of an incorrigible young gentleman, so conservative of disposition and refined in mannerism as to laugh at the notion of putting such wild and vulgar musings into action. I am but a small, humble voice speaking out behind the shield of the 1st amendment. Having said that, I want it to be known that I am at this very instant concocting a plan to render both Creed and Nickelback incapable of doing any more damage to American music. I am going to give them AIDS.

If you do not know either of these bands you are both lucky and probably over 60. To surmise, they are both post-grunge rock bands whose popularity is rivaled only by their mediocrity. Yet these horrible excuses for bands somehow managed to make it on the soundtrack of any movie that has an explosion in it. Lets go down Nickelback's list, shall we?: Spiderman, Charlie's Angles, Transformers, Torque, Daredevil, The Scorpion King, The Condemned. A fitting score to some of the decade's finest cinema. Yes, if you've seen a movie or watched TV in the past 10 years you have more than likely been subjected to their unmemorable, cookie-cuter crap. If, however, you have been living in a rock or in Wyoming, you're probably wondering what they sound like...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvujgcbaCF8

All their songs are exactly the same! EXACTLY! Yet everywhere you turn, you can't help but run into their latest musical abortion. They suck so much it's like they've created a giant, self sustaining vacuum that gained self awareness apart from the "musicians" that created it and is now infecting horrible movies every where. I guess it's not all bad, though, by putting Nickelback in Charlies Angels: Full Throttle, the movie sucked less by comparison.

It's not like they can help it. I mean, they are Canadian. Even if they were decent they'd be a mole-hill in the shadow Mount Awesome, also called Rush. At least Portugal had the sense to recognize the health hazards of listening to their "music" and forced them off stage with rocks and beer bottles.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7F3O6WYfHQ&feature=related

Throwing beer bottles and rocks at posers IS rock and roll. Whoring out every one of your unoriginal, over processed singles to whichever media outlet is horny enough to pay for it and calling it rock and roll is not.

And don't get me started on Creed. They don't even have the balls to be a full on Christian rock band and accept that they're just the next fix for the Jesus junkies. No, they have to dance the middle line so everyone can enjoy their pseudo-religious crap. It's not like they're good Christians, their lead singer was kicked out of college for drug use and their bass player left because he wasn't getting a fair cut of the profits. You're the BASS PLAYER, you're expendable and no one gives a shit about you.

You'd think the drugs and fighting would at least translate into some good rock and roll material but no, all they did was inject Pear Jam's sound with steroids and sell it to the WWE crowd to listen to on sunday! Sunday! SUNDAY! Then they had the audacity to criticize Pear Jam for writing songs without hooks and spurning their success at it's height. But see, the difference between Pearl Jam and Creed is Pear Jam was successful because they were TOO FUCKING AWESOME NOT TO BE. Creed, on the other hand, just imitated what already was successful and put a new label on it. They apparently went on tour with Alice in Chains and never once met the band they were touring with, probably because they were ashamed for stealing their sound. And if you still don't believe that Creed sucks, type "the worst band in the world" into Google and see what you get.



At least Creed is somewhat aware of their own worthlessness. Their lead singer, Scott Stapp, apparently contemplated committing suicide because he was convinced that anyone involved with Creed wanted him dead, go figure. He had it in his mind he would become a "Kurt Cobain martyr-type" and increase record sales, so he tried to kill himself. Natural selection at its finest if you ask me.

That is why I plan on finishing what Scott started. I am going to give both Nickelback and Creed what they deserve: AIDS.

My plan is as follows. First I need to find someone who looks like Kurt Cobain to dress as his ghost and haunt Scott Stapp. I will have the ghost of Kurt Cobain tell Scott that part of his soul has been reincarnated as a young Nickelback fan and that he just can't have that since Nickelback totally sucks compared to Creed, (which in truth they do). The ghost of Kurt Cobain will tell Scott that he needs him to kill the Nickelback fan whose body he is trapped in.

"The only one capable of killing him is you Scott," he will say,
"For you are the chosen one. Once he dies I will be able to come back to earth in my true form, as the second coming of the messiah, Jesus Christ."
"Then will people respect my music?"
"No, but you will secure your place in history as being Jesus Christ's main man. That is what you want, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, my lord, YES!"
"Good, no go and do my bidding."

Now, the only way to kill the Nickelback fan, according to Kurt's ghost, will be to have a joint show, Nickelback and Creed, together on stage for one night only. It's the only way to lure him out of his trailer, which is protected by a force field and lots of angry bees. Nickelback will be easy to get, just tell them they're playing in Kansas. Ignorance breeds Nickelback fans. Finding this particular Nickelback fan will be difficult though, as they're about as diverse as Nickelback's music. Fortunately, having Kurt Cobain's soul trapped in his body will afford him certain superpowers, namely the ability to withstand extremely loud and dissonant music. Therefor the only way to find him is for both Nickelback and Creed to play as loud and as bad as possible, simultaneously.

Unbeknowst to them, but the sheer force of their suckiness, once combined, should be enough to summon the demon Mephastophilis. Mephastophilis is an agent of Lucifer, who, once summoned, comes to steal the souls of his summoners, namely Creed and Nickelback. Unfortunately, both Creed and Nickelback sold their souls many years ago over the ability to sell records and a pack of Big League Chew respectively. Therefor the only thing left for Lucifer to claim will be their physical bodies. Being the shrewd businessmen they are, Creed/Nickelback will attempt to strike a deal, and, being a businessman himself, Lucifer will give them a choice between instant death and eternal damnation then, or 25 years on earth to atone for all their transgressions and the opportunity for white collar hell with the possibility of parole.

Then, as soon as they sign the contract, a tribe of aborigines will come out and shoot them with darts laced with AIDS. Why don't they do this sooner and save the trouble of summoning demons and deals with the devil? Fuck you, that's why. Not only will they will be infected with AIDS for the final years of their life but they will be too sick to right their innumerable sins against popular music, thus dooming their souls to burn in hell for all eternity with the knowledge that they could have had it so much better.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beg you consider this. If you deem my judgment of Creed and Nickelback too harsh, I would like to point out the fact that I am a very powerful man. The vast number of people I have at my command, as evident by the numerous comments below each posting, should be enough to remind the jury that I can easily do to them what I am going to do to Nickelback/ Creed. If you have any further questions, please direct them at my skinny white ass.

In other news, I would like to let it be known that I am compiling all of my writings into a compilation that will go on sale shortly. To protect my identity I am writing under a pseudonym. Here is a tentative cover.

Stay classy.

Sex appeal

Sex appeal. Megan Fox has it, my blog doesn't. Well no more! That's right, it's time to get sexual. In fact, most of my entries are going to deal with sex in some way, shape or form so you might want to get used to it.

Now, I'm a firm believer that a pair of tit's can brighten up just about anything. You don't see many 4's and 5's anchoring the news, do you? Why? Because when Armageddon comes people would rather hear about it from Megan Fox than Rosie O'Donnell. I know that when I kick the bucket I want to go out with a raging hard on. I want them to have to cremate me because they can't close the lid to my coffin. That is why (take note of this) when I die, I want the news broken to my family and friends by a topless Filipino model.

Imagine, you're sitting outside the operating room while the doctors try to surgically remove the kung fu grip I still have on the badger clamped to my jugular. Seems my years of badger fighting have finally caught up to me. For hours you wait outside with nothing but magazines and Judge Judy to keep you company. Finally the door opens and everyone stands up to see one of the doctors come out covered in blood... and fur. He looks your way only briefly and shakes his head. Slowly he turns to walk away, revealing a topless Filipino woman with beautiful, natural, double d's.

"I am so sorry, but he didn't make it. That badger was... massive. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Think of the oral sex that follows as part of the healing process.

Seriously though, why does death have to be so depressing? I know that for my funeral there's going to be a two drink minimum, a light show, and a guest appearance by Lil' Wayne. Also, the red punch will be spiked with acid. Then I want the same topless Filipino woman to deliver my eulogy and then rub my ashes all over her naked body while everyone else burns my worldly possessions and dances around the fire. Then everyone will load onto a bus to eat pancakes at Denny's.

On second thought, just forget you read that entire paragraph.

You know, when people tell me I'm strange I usually take it as a compliment. Normal people are boring and have nothing to say. I, on the other hand, may have nothing to say but at least I'm not boring. At best I'm eccentric and at worst I'm sketchy. Either way, let's just say I lack certain social graces. I guess that's why I've never been good at staring at attractive women.

The art of passing complete strangers and letting them know you think they're attractive without them looking at you funny and checking to see if they have something in their teeth is one I have yet to master. See, if I stare at the ground to long, I look like I've got something to hide. If I stare outright, though, I look at a pig. Then, when I try to steal glances, I shift my eyes too much and look, well, shifty. Really, I just want to know how to subtly send the message: "we should have Earth shattering sex right here on the sidewalk" without saying it outright.

That's not to say I'm completely incompetent when it comes to the opposite sex. I love talking to women. I've always thought of them as beautiful creatures from a more advanced, sophisticated and cleaner planet that have come to earth to make me sandwiches and suck my cock. Seriously though, any woman who can tolerate me is a better person than I am. That is why, women, I would like to thank you for making me a better person by osmosis. But as much I am inspired by you, don't think for a second that I put the pussy on a pedistal.

Seriously, I don't care if my clothes don't match. I don't care how horny you are, I am not about to have sex with your bleeding vagina (oral is ok though). And if you think that Britney Spears is a legitimate musician than not only can we not be friends but I will probably find where you live and egg your house. It's like, I hear you talking but all I'm thinking is "bitch shut up! I don't care about Ewan McFuckingregor, I'm trying to watch Star Wars!"

Ah, if only life were like porn. The only thing librarians and school teachers would be able to locate on a map is the g-spot. Like a musical number in a Broadway show, people would break out in spontaneous orgies. Everyone would be choppy and pixelated, especially during peak traffic hours. Also, everyone in Japan would be animated and raped by tentacles.

Unfortunately we don't live in magical porn land where Astroglide River flows down Silicone Breast Mountain to a giant vibrating lake. No, we live in a capitalist society, one where sex is just another commodity with a dollar value attached to it.

Now, I had typed up a lengthy paragraph on the commodification of sex in a consumer society. While the subject of the consumerism and sex is one I'd like to go into farther, I am currently writing a research paper on 18th century prostitution and don't really feel like mixing business (my paper) with pleasure (my blog), even if the former is about the business of pleasure. If you really give a shit, I'll post it next time.

Besides, who wants to listen to me talk isms? TOTALLY unsexy. Well, I guess I really don't have anything else to say. Before I go, in honor of all the money I spent on alcohol during my trip to Austin, and the money I borrowed and still haven't payed back (Sorry Meredith, you know I'm good for it) I give you this:

Stay classy.

The First Entry

Hi everybody! I am about to establish rapport by using exclamation marks, emoticons and CAPS LOCK! GET READY!!! :) :) :) ;) Did you feel the connection then? The waves of pure joy emanating from the words on your computer screen like they were scooped out of a Chernobyl landfill? I know I sure did, and I hope my radioactive greeting has induced a happy little cancer in your brain you will call Mark Vickers.

Now, starting a blog is not new to me. I am a master starter. I've read the first thirty pages of just about every book that's out there. Tolstoy? Yep. Fitzgerald? You bet. Shakespeare? Shall I compare thee to a something or other... YES! I have also started almost 50 journals. My bookshelf is lined with fine, leather backed tomes with one entry asserting that this time I am going to stick with it... for reals. As a result, I've gotten quite good at writing first entries so it's pretty much going to be downhill from here.

But stow that talk! I shalll prevail! No longer will the ennui of daily existence thwart my literary forays!

It is with this sentiment that I have decided to join the online army of knuckleheads with computers and start a blog. But this will be no ordinary blog, no sir. This will be my blog, an accessory in my deviant escapades, and, most importantly, a chance for me to entertain you. Why? Because I love you.

You're probably asking yourself why this is called The Existential Robot Novel Project. Be patient, all will be revealed in due time. All I'll tell you now is it involves you listening to a novel idea I have about a man who turns into a robot with existential issues. Aren't you lucky! Until then, I leave you with a tribute to the giant crap I just took.

Stay classy