LORD CTHULU, I BEG OF THEE...
...Relieve this muddy sphere of the psycho-acoustic toxin that is PHIL COLLINS. Wear his sweaty flesh-case as a condom on one of thy mighty tentacles and sodomize all of Heaven with it. This sonic dingleberry from across the pond clings to my eardrums with a parasitic irritation unmatched even by the yodeling piehole of that big ugly blond woman they call DAVID LEE ROTH. His crimes are greater than those of Osama Bin Laden, Hitler, Idi Amin Dada and Barry Manilow.
Before I launch into my sermon with all the fire n' fury of Jeremiah Wright on a crack withdrawal, I have a most humiliating, blasphemous confession to make that could defrock me of my great unholy cloth: I once owned a copy of Genesis' "Invisible Touch".
I know, MOCK me. LAUGH at me. The hypocrisy, yes, the hypocrisy. You see, friends, I was a naive young lad of age nine, I knew not my shame and tastelessness. Of course, anyone who is making too much fun of me for it probably listened to cock rock by cross-dressing coke-casualties and is STILL PROUD OF IT. I, for one, NEVER listened to ANY of that homoerotic dogshit that men with mullets beat their wives to, so wipe Vince Neil's jit off your lips before you sport that shit-eating grin. Everybody's got skeletons, at least I can clean house with honesty. I NEVER listened to music by closet-cases with Aqua-Net in their ass hair.
I have certainly done enough time for my Genesis-owning transgression, anyway. The powers that be have forced me to work in job after job, to shop in outlet after outlet, to sit in dentist's chair after waiting room with Phil Collins' tinny squeal playing on the system. I would say that I have heard at least one Phil Collins song every day of my life for the last twenty years or longer, and I understand it no more than I can accept it. Why aren't we rioting in the streets over this?
Today I sat in Pizza Hut and waited... my food had already been served, and what I was waiting for was not a tasty Italian cheese boat lovingly crafted by Mexicans. It was an auditory hemorrhoid in the shape of a balding, dentally challenged British nebbish with a synthesizer plugged into his crack...
"When ah theenk uv YOOO-OOO, Awll ah hev tew dew, ees take wun loook et YOOOOO, den ah'm not soooo blooo" ... oh, but it so totally blue, Billy. It BLEW like a category five. It blew like cyclone fuckin' NARGIS.
Something like eighty percent of this cumsodden dickrag's songs are LOVE songs. I don't get it. Does this doughy eunuch really have sex? Are you kidding me? His songs appear on hundreds of crappy 'music' collections for 'romantic' evenings by the fire with wrinkly baby-boomer elephants.
I can't think of a bigger killer of hard-ons than that micropenis falsetto of his. If I heard his voice while I was naked, I would probably stick my head between my legs, bite off my own peepee, spit it into a trashcan and never think of sexual activity again. And yet I am sure there have been more than a hundred thousand squealing mongoloids conceived to the tune of "One More Night". Revolting.
Does Phil Collins' style of crooning get you in the mood for some love-making? KILL YOURSELF. DO IT. NOW. 'One more night' of this syphilitic reptile from space and his flying keyboard will breed millions more light-rock reprobates than this planet has any use for.
Everybody loves the bit in "American Psycho" where he hacks that broad up on a plastic-covered couch with "No Jacket Required" playing softly in the background like a fart in the wind. I think of the scene every time I stand in line at a grocery store cringing at the sounds of screaming babies and bar-code-blips mingling with the beat of the song "No Son Of Mine". If I had a baby that looked like Phil Collins (and I've seen quite a few), I would perform a late abortion with battery acid. It is only the kind of public service a civic-minded deadbeat could perform.
How did the guy become famous? I really just don't understand it at all. I know the general populace are unimaginative and prosaic, but are they masochistic, as well? I've heard this pimply little scrotum's voice possibly more times than I have taken a shit in my life. Seriously. There should be a goddamn law.
Anyone who's had the displeasure of letting me ride in their car knows I am a real cunt about having to listen to network radio of any kind. It causes me physical pain to hear mainstream music of almost ANY kind. The fact is that I have simply heard too many of the same songs OVER and OVER in my life and I don't need to anymore. Some music is timeless, most music has a shelf life.
Why should I waste a minute of my life deliberately listening to shit that I can always hear when I go out to buy cat litter and deoderant? Do I look like I spend my time at home slapping myself on the dick with a yardstick? Come on, man, I'm a motherfucker with vision, taste and intelligence. I don't have time to waste hearing Celine Dion ask me where her heart beats. Her bloody heart can stop beating for all I care, and so can those of light rock musicians everywhere.
Life is just too short and miserable to waste listening to middle-aged millionaires sing the blues over preprogrammed beats. That shit is NOT art, it is NOT music, it is NOT worth writing about in history books or penning new versions of. It is CORPORATE HYPNOTISM and I have far too strong a will to sleepwalk to it.