Have you ever heard of that guy who had his hand trapped under a bolder and had to cut his arm off to live? I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure it was something like John Naileater, or Joe Rockbender, something like that, (though I’m sure his nickname is Lefty now.) Anyway, this guy was walking around some mountains, knocking bald eagles out of the sky with his loogies, wrestling whole sloths of bear, (that’s right chumps, the name for a group of bears is a sloth, or sleuth, consider yourself educated!)
and starting forest fires with nothing more than his steely gaze. When all of a sudden, a jerk of a boulder decided to crush his hand and part of his forearm, (you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t have the details of this story correct, it happened a few years ago and frankly, I have more important things to look up online, i.e. names for groups of animals and the closest strip clubs with midget transgender strippers).
After a few days of only slight discomfort, (pain that would have caused a lesser man to scream and void his bowels) Bob Steelchewer decided that he wanted to get back home in time to watch a little football and have some beers. So, over the course of a few days, with nothing more than a small, dull, 3-inch bladed pocket knife, (you know, the kind where, if you were to run across a ten-year-old boy scout with his knife, you’d have blade envy) he managed to cut through skin, muscle, sinew, ligaments, bone, cloth, fudge and four types of cheese. He had nothing to block out the pain, and he didn’t get to take breaks to go play Halo or whatever. He simply used a knife that would be hard pressed to cut through warm butter and single-mindedly (and handedly!) sawed through his arm until he was free.
Like I said, it took a long ass time. He’d get halfway through a bone and pass out for a few hours due to extreme pain. For him it was the single most painful and excruciating thing he has ever experienced. We, as normal people who have never been in that situation could never wrap our brains around just what that guy had to endure during that time. The majority of us, if ever faced with a choice like that would rather die than feel such agony and torture.
I tell you that to tell you this.
I would rather cut off my arm with a spoon than listen to any more “music” that T-Pain puts out.
“But who’s T-Pain?” you might be asking yourself. Good question. Besides being the herald of death for contemporary music, T-Pain, is some fat sloppy dude who is featured on approximately 110% of the songs that can be heard on most hip-hop and R & B radio stations. (The extra ten percent counts for spillover on gospel, sports and country stations. That fool is everywhere!)
“Alright, so he’s in a lot of songs, that’s not so bad. What’s wrong with the guy, Josh?” Another good question. First off, the boy can’t sing. That wouldn’t be so bad if he was trying to rap, but he also can’t rap, which wouldn’t be a problem if he was just trying to sing. But he tries to do both, at the same time! It’s impossible. It’s like kissing your elbow or trying to find the female G-Spot. Impossible I tell you!
The whole fusion of rap and R & B has gotten too ridiculous. Have you heard Sexual Eruption by Snoop? Who told that fool he could sing? How much bubba cush did he have to smoke to do that shit?! It’s mad frustrating to me. I’m sure that country music people feel the same way about the blending of country and pop music. Sometimes segregation is a good thing. I segregate the foods on my plate, the socks in my drawer and the genres of my music.
What’s worse about T-Pain is that you never hear his real voice. His voice is so overly synthesized and mechanical that he’s given hope to people with voice boxes who think they can be the next American Idol. He makes Stephen Hawking sound like Placido Domingo. I always figured that only people who can sing should sing. Guess I’m a little backwards in my ways. What’s next, quadriplegic gymnasts?
“Fine Josh, I can see that you’ve really got a bug up your ass about this cat, but why should I care? I listen to rock, emo and other music of that nature. He’s not bothering me.” This is true. So far. But like terrorism, communism and those stupid crocs, this shit can and will spread! Today T-Pain and his kind are just on the “urban music” stations. Tomorrow he could be on your “contemporary top 40” station. Next week he could be on your “smooth jazz” stations! In a month he might be on the “easy listening that even the boss can enjoy” station. Next year it could be NPR! Who knows how far this could go? You might be driving in to work, sipping your delicious mochagrandefrappechino with a dash of whipped cream and just a hint of nutmeg, listening to Pachabel’s Cannon in D minor and next thing you know there’s some kind of robot voice on the radio telling women to make their butt cheeks clap!
I shudder at the possibilities. We can put a stop to T-Pain in our lifetime.
And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of every musician who puts “lil” at the front of their names. I’m getting a headache just trying to keep track of ‘em all.
Bands with cutesy, nonsensical names (Deathcab for Cutie, Fallout Boy, Michael Bublé) I’m coming for your asses next.**