In remembrance of Great White's illustrious career, I will be posting lovely, patriotic tributes to them throughout today's update.
Before I start today's update, I would like to take a moment to honor and pay tribute to the 97 innocent victims who were recently killed while attending a Great White concert. This catastrophe is a reminder that our brutal capitalistic society cares more about fulfilling its insatiable sense of raw greed than the lives of the people it chooses to irresponsibly exploit. Such events as this help our souls slide further into extinction, almost guaranteeing that we'll soon become a nation of individuals who place material possessions and the promise of wealth before the most precious thing this world has to offer us: other loving and caring human beings, the only things in the world that can make us truly feel complete. With that out of the way, I will now proceed to ruthlessly mock the deaths of these people.
First off, if you're still a fan of Great White, you honestly should've killed yourself near the end of the 1980s. Great White fans are the guys you see in the grocery store wearing acid-bleached jeans, biker boots, and a jean jacket featuring a series of colorful sequins in the form of a Bald Eagle. They're the people who drive the IROC-Zs of America, the individuals who are fans of any vehicle which has a body design sharp and angular enough to slice your finger in half if you attempt to touch it or even look at it in any way which could be described as "menacing" or "pitying." These people still have a robust collection of cassette tapes featuring bands that, when grouped together, would have a mass of hair large enough to take over a major city airport. I don't think I even need to mention the obligatory mullet that each of these human gems sport around, a stringy, filthy length of shame which resembles some sort of parasitic organism whose duty is to drain all sense of judgment from their dangerously bored minds and replace it with fantastically creative ideas such as "drink more beer."
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the legendary Great White (I shall refer to you as "the blessed"), they were another one of those one-hit wonders from the 1980s, mostly in the sense that "I wonder if one hit to their face with a street sign would make them stop producing records." Their claim to fame was a perky little ditty of a song entitled, "Once Bitten, Twice Shy," which dealt with the poignant and meaningful social issue that a multitude of 80s hair metal bands often attempted to tackle: the freedom to "rock out." Great White was one of the many, many bands who used to sing about death and murdering people and forging pacts with Satan in exchange for one of those way cool double guitars that not only had the luxury of sounding like complete shit, but also had the additional benefit of looking like complete shit. They followed the path of every 80s hair metal band: sing about death, sign a contract with MTV, then start singing about watered-down wussy crap like "rocking out" and "the unbelievable list of incredible opportunities presented to those who take advantage of the ability to rock out." The only difference between Great White and all the other whiteboy rockin' bands in the 80s was the fact that Great White didn't really rock and roll very well. They were out-performed by the artists they tried so hard to rip off, ranging from lead vocalist's Jack Russell's crappy imitation of Robert Plant, to Mark Kendall's charade as Jimmy Page. Take one part Led Zeppelin or AC/DC, then cut that part into 2,000 different parts, select one at random, and you'll have Great White. Of course, I won't let my jaded, one-sided portrayal of "Great White" ruin your objectivity on this issue, so allow me to present some of the lyrics from their very non-hit song, "Out Of The Night":
Your mama told you baby, I'm not the man for you
And what your daddy told you darlin, ain't nothin' but the truth!
I'm a rocker, I'm a roller,
I'm a stone cold drinking man
I'm gonna give you lovin', the only way I can.
Remember: DON'T FORGET.
Wow! Those lyrics seem to be copied straight out of award-winning King Poetry Amiri Baraka's "Big Book O' Poems: The Rockin' Out Edition!" It's really difficult to understand how a band with such raw talent and power shriveled up and died like a vampire jumping into the sun once the 80s ended! I can only assume they were part of a massive governmental conspiracy, once that involves me joining my crustacean-like friends at the local Scientology clinic and handing a burlap sack with three "$" signs stenciled across it to a large bald man who has significantly less Thetans than I.
Now some of you out there may have issues with my hard line stance of "who cares?" in regards to the recently Great White great yellow inferno. Although the fire caused by Great White's impressive pyrotechnical abilities (the skill to light a bottle rocket and point it in the general direction of the sky, which I believe is currently "up") knocked off a few 1980s time warp victims, others were killed by the ensuing panic of 50-year old bearded guys trampling over them and crushing their skulls like a ping pong ball under the wheel of a Ford Explorer. Stampeding over people until they are dead is an activity bonded within our DNA and dates back to the time when the Romans decided they had enough of that militant Muslim guy named Jesus, so they threw him into the Adelphia Coliseum and allowed Barrabus (a notorious Jesus "playah hatah" at the time) to enter in and trample Jesus to death by using nothing but his massive girth and Iron Boots of the Warrior, which added +3 to his STR but lowered his CON by -1. The art of trampling can be seen at any English "football" game, which is not really football and not really a game but they continue to play it regardless. For example, after the Manchester United Haggledubloons defeat the Ipswich Town Bloody Lorries, fans from each team engage each other in fisticuffs until one of them is knocked to the ground, at which point a crowd of 10,000 people comes out of nowhere and starts jumping on the guy until his bones are interacting with the molten core of the Earth. Then those guys with the funny puffy hats and nightsticks run onto the scene and begin shouting, "nothing to see here, please move along" in a comical tone of voice which would insinuate they're a member of some local chimney-sweeping union.
No matter how much I think Great White really stunk and can't really find it in myself to pity anybody dumb enough to attend their concert when it takes place in a building made from jumbo-sized Lincoln Logs and has a pyrotechnics crew consisting of a gelatinous white trash blob whose first name is two initials and his last name is a city in Georgia, I can't help but feel that there are other, more deserving bands that need to catch fire in a horrible inferno. For example, there's Ja Rule. Actually, Ja Rule is the only name that keeps coming up in my mind, so let's just concentrate on him, despite the protest of my more sane and logical mental faculties. Here are some great nightclub ideas I've been brainstorming by utilizing the power of my "Happy Thought Helmet," an odd, misshapen bowl-like tool that I found near that one military test facility I was told to never visit because they've been spending all the taxpayer's money for the last 28 years on bombarding radioactive isotopes and spiders with more radioactive isotopes in an attempt to create a giant radioactive isotope which can shoot out spider webs from its hands and solve crimes involving grown men dressed as mechanical sea creatures.
Ja Rule and some white guy post at Stampede!, shortly before the stampede begins. NOTE: photograph was taken in the future by our time-traveling camera drones.
This nightclub would be a tribute to days gone by, the times when men were men and women were women, unless the women were men, in which case the women who were men were men too. The period known as the "Wild Wild West" took place somewhere in between 1600 AD and 1963 AD, and was known for mystical creatures referred to as "cowboys" (who were neither named after cows nor boys) roaming the plains, in search of elusive wild chickens and other threatening animals. Upon successfully tracking down an enemy cow, the cowboy would throw a rope in the general direction of his prey and it would magically turn into a loop and somehow ensnare the unsuspecting, venom-filled animal. Then he'd haul it back into town where the villagers would rejoice and engage in a hoedown, drinking from unmarked jugs and branding the captive animal with red hot pokers in the shape of lighthearted and cheerful swastikas. Our exclusive nightclub "Stampede!" would bring this theme of danger and romance and painful burning back to the present, where it damn well belongs. At a random point throughout Ja Rule's rap "performance," a large bull or fat guy with an assault rifle will be let into the room, goring and shooting anybody in his path. The crowd will then flee to the nearest exit, which just happens to be at the end of a mile-long corridor which is roughly three feet wide. The chances of a good trampling are very high in this scenario, particularly since the exit door is made out of steel. Oh yeah, and it's welded to the walls. The fat guy gets to eat whatever he tramples.
"Oh No, It's Ducks!"
Mankind has loved ducks ever since the first day an apparition of a disembodied, floating, pantsless duck appeared to Walt "Disneyland" Disney after a night of binge drinking and primitive speedballs. Ducks have since been immortalized in various pleasing cartoon forms, although usually missing critical articles of clothing. "Oh No, It's Ducks!" would appear to be a simple, run of the mill nightclub to anybody ignoring the giant LED readout on the wall below the air raid siren and hazard lights. Ja Rule would get on stage, begin his routine of saying words to no conceivable rhythm while somebody pushes buttons on an unpowered keyboard behind him. While his show goes on, the LED, which is simply a timer, will be silently counting down from 10:00 to, well, 00:00. Once the clock hits 00:00, the air raid sirens go off, hazard lights start flashing everywhere, and a deep voice comes booming in over the loudspeakers stating, "OH NO! IT'S DUCKS!" At this point, the ceiling retracts and millions and millions of ducks are released into the room, causing the stunned members of the crowd to become not as stunned and instead flee in abject terror. Now you might be wondering how ducks would horrify and hopefully end up killing them all, but there's a simple reason for this: I meant to replace the word "ducks" with "explosives."The Cannon Club welcomes Ja Rule and Ja Rule's banana headband.
"The Cannon Club"
"The Cannon Club" lacks a theme or motif unlike the previous two ideas. For example, there are no ducks or cowboys allowed in "The Cannon Club." There is, however, a G5 155mm 45-caliber howitzer stationed directly behind the curtains where Ja Rule will be performing his exciting, entertaining act. The cannon is programmed to automatically fire a Frag-HE round at a pre-determined point in time, which just happens to coincide with the exact moment Ja Rule first opens his mouth to say something or cough or breathe. If the cannon somehow fails to obliterate him and his legion of thug lyfe fans, then we'll fall back on plan B and the aforementioned "ducks" will soon descend onto the heads of the survivors.
While it is unfortunate that 80s hair metal band fans are getting knocked off at an alarming rate, it is good to know that there will always be talented musicians such as Ja Rule to let us know that you don't have to be talented or a musician to be labeled a "talented musician." And with each fan he gains, the chances of them getting caught in a burning nightclub or nightclub full of paid employees burning them increase dramatically. I guess I should feel sad about the Great White fiasco, particularly now since they're going to be back in the spotlight and have a chance of selling or, God forbid producing, more albums, but I really can't help but feel that there's a whole new demographic of music fans to burn, and these tragic accidents really should start catching up with the times. I guess my feelings can be best summed up by the following lyrics from Great White's non-smash hit song "Stick It":
The old man told me "Hey you! Make a choice.
You can the music and stop all the noise,
Or you can get out and find your own way!"
I told him "Stick it." My rock's here to stay.
No. No. I can't live without it
No. No. It just ain't the same
No. No. Ain't no doubt about it
So rock me again!
I wanna roll it and burn it all night
Me and my Chevy don't stop for no lights
Crankin' the metal, blastin' the plant
They wanna catch me, betcha they can't!
I think that means he's gay.
Comedy Goldmine: Version .5 Alpha
Tally ho, we've got gold in them there those these hills! The SA Forum Goons once again ventured into the always exciting and mysterious movie making industry, this time examining what the movie BEFORE the movie was like. That's right, we're talking about prequels!
Awww... a baby Michael Madsen! Was anybody else besides me really pissed when they canceled "Vengeance: Unlimited"? I loved that damn show! Bah... regardless, the Comedy Goldmine is here and ready for you to inspect, with or without the spooky white rubber gloves.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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