Michael Jackson is dead. Now about 750,000 fans who spent roughly 85 million dollars for tickets to his "This Is It Tour" have refunds in their hands, grief in their hearts and no freak to see.
Prince, you must take advantage of their grief. You can be the replacement freak for all those Wacko Jacko admirers, and all that money could be yours if you do the “See Me before I Drop Dead Tour.” (You could do this tour every year until you finally drop dead.)
Sure, Wacko Jacko fans are lunatics, but does it matter? It is not like you particularly care about your fanbase. I am sure at least a few of them have managed to breed and have dancing babies you can sue. Really instead of suing babies, you should be begging hospitals to give out your music instead of those tired old Mozart CDs. Probably about your only hope to get anyone under the age of 35 to listen to you again.
If the "Drop Dead Tour" and the hospital CD do not bring you the money and fame you still crave, you still can always get hip surgery and do the “Hump the Piano Tour” for all the fans who were in elementary school and too young to see you slithering your tight little ass across that piano and tantalizing us with “Do you want him? Or do you want me?” Hump that piano, baby!
Once you start humping that piano, why don’t you just break out all your filthy ditties and make it the “Dirty Forever Tour.” Bring all those freaky hits on the road Head, Jack U Off , and Let’s Pretend We’re Married. Of course, you must perform Erotic City, not the instrumental version that you have been teasing fans with for 10 years but the full vocal, “We can fuck until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone” rendition. On a similar note, stop changing “Sexuality” to “Spiritually.”
Congratulations on finding your religion and being a devoted Jehovah Witness. You are entitled to your religion and personal quest, but don't burden your fans with your crappy God is Great music. You owe it to your fans to give them the salaciousness that they desire. Actually, you owe it to the one fan who finally got out from under her parents' control, moved near a big city, and got enough money for a ticket, the year that you stopped saying “fuck.”
It's time to bring back the panty dropping songs, so you must make a deal with the JW church. You need to make a donation to the church that is so large that the Catholics will be jealous and the elders in the Watch Tower Society will be helping you sing Hide the Bone. You can have it all: your religion (keep private and out of your music), lots of money (isn't that want the whole Warner Bros. cheated and mistreated me pity party is really about?) and your artistic freedom. You can still write and sing your mature, politically aware songs like Colonized Mind, but please give us your Dirty Mind back before you drop dead.
Sincerely,
Garbageman's Daughter
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Revenge Is Not Best Served With a Hot Chick
How does a husband get back at his wife for making veiled references to their sex life on her blog?
By going to a strip club called “Young Hot Chicks with Tight Asses and Perky Breasts for Stinky Middle-Aged Desperate Men with Wandering Hairlines, Expanding Waistlines and Money to Blow for a Little Bit of Insincere Attention” and making a large cash withdrawal from his shared checking account.
He later draws attention to the withdrawal by calling his wife to say: “I am at a strip club, and I spent a lot of money.”
How does the wife retaliate?
http://garbagemansdaughter.blogspot.com/2009/08/revenge-is-not-best-served-with-hot.html
Ready for Round 2?
By going to a strip club called “Young Hot Chicks with Tight Asses and Perky Breasts for Stinky Middle-Aged Desperate Men with Wandering Hairlines, Expanding Waistlines and Money to Blow for a Little Bit of Insincere Attention” and making a large cash withdrawal from his shared checking account.
He later draws attention to the withdrawal by calling his wife to say: “I am at a strip club, and I spent a lot of money.”
How does the wife retaliate?
http://garbagemansdaughter.blogspot.com/2009/08/revenge-is-not-best-served-with-hot.html
Ready for Round 2?
Monday, August 17, 2009
On Blogging
My blog posts are like a series of one night stands. They feel good at the time, but make me vomit when I look at them a second time.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Monkey See, Monkey Conceive
Zoos are not the preferred accommodations of most wild animals. With tight living quarters, restricted diets and their inability to hook up in kinky, bestial ways anytime and anywhere, they probably become pretty pissed off living in cages. You don’t need to have a Ph.D. in Zoology to know that when pissed off animals get loose, they are going to seek retribution and are not going to take the time to look for the teal and salmon colored name tag that reads “zookeeper.”
So, with the threat of death by mauling looming behind every Dippin’ Dots cart, zoos are not my kind of tourist trap. Give me a botanical garden or contemporary art museum any day. Sure, my husband claims that Museums of Modern Art are pretentious institutional frauds, but I say: “Take my money, my intellect and my dignity but leave me my entrails, please.”
Being as attached to my innards as I am, I avoid zoos, but on the rare occasion that I am required to visit, I would welcome a hit of MJ’s propofol. However, there is one time of year that I can visit a zoo without sedation: Springtime. Something about a zoo in April or May is less animalistic, more maternalistic. Babies, babies, and more babies. Baby elephants, baby hippos, baby tigers, baby giraffes, baby monkeys, and of course, all of the human babies in strollers.
My husband and I visited a big city zoo during one its baby booms a few years back. Watching the tenderness of a mama tiger nursing her babies momentarily made me forget that a sleep-deprived tigress with raging hormones and a touch of postpartum depression would gladly take off my arm for dinner and save my liver for a bedtime snack.
After surviving the tiger cages, we headed to monkey cages.
We stopped at the monkey cage to watch a mama monkey manage her brood of obstinate babies who were far more interested in playing on manmade monkey bars than going with their mom to the back of the cage for some lunch. One of the monkeys did a twirl or two around the rope as his mama chased him and prodded his monkey butt with her nose; the other baby monkeys took advantage of their mother’s distraction and mucked around a bit for the crowds that gathered to watch the animal kingdom version of Kate and her eight. (The dad monkey, nowhere in sight, was rumored to be in Hawaii with a younger, less domineering monkey.)
As we watched, my husband said: "Let’s have one.”
“A monkey?”, I responded incredulously.
“No, a baby,” he said as he took my hand and gently kissed it.
Being a sucker for a cute guy with a good line, we monkeyed around that night.
It took and that was the extent of our family planning.
But if parenting is so easy that monkeys can do it, why couldn't we?
So, with the threat of death by mauling looming behind every Dippin’ Dots cart, zoos are not my kind of tourist trap. Give me a botanical garden or contemporary art museum any day. Sure, my husband claims that Museums of Modern Art are pretentious institutional frauds, but I say: “Take my money, my intellect and my dignity but leave me my entrails, please.”
Being as attached to my innards as I am, I avoid zoos, but on the rare occasion that I am required to visit, I would welcome a hit of MJ’s propofol. However, there is one time of year that I can visit a zoo without sedation: Springtime. Something about a zoo in April or May is less animalistic, more maternalistic. Babies, babies, and more babies. Baby elephants, baby hippos, baby tigers, baby giraffes, baby monkeys, and of course, all of the human babies in strollers.
My husband and I visited a big city zoo during one its baby booms a few years back. Watching the tenderness of a mama tiger nursing her babies momentarily made me forget that a sleep-deprived tigress with raging hormones and a touch of postpartum depression would gladly take off my arm for dinner and save my liver for a bedtime snack.
After surviving the tiger cages, we headed to monkey cages.
We stopped at the monkey cage to watch a mama monkey manage her brood of obstinate babies who were far more interested in playing on manmade monkey bars than going with their mom to the back of the cage for some lunch. One of the monkeys did a twirl or two around the rope as his mama chased him and prodded his monkey butt with her nose; the other baby monkeys took advantage of their mother’s distraction and mucked around a bit for the crowds that gathered to watch the animal kingdom version of Kate and her eight. (The dad monkey, nowhere in sight, was rumored to be in Hawaii with a younger, less domineering monkey.)
As we watched, my husband said: "Let’s have one.”
“A monkey?”, I responded incredulously.
“No, a baby,” he said as he took my hand and gently kissed it.
Being a sucker for a cute guy with a good line, we monkeyed around that night.
It took and that was the extent of our family planning.
But if parenting is so easy that monkeys can do it, why couldn't we?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)