The part where the Volt flies though the air is my favorite.
In other news: Did you know that Orson Welles directed films?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Back in June, I used a picture depicting Skeletor alongside the Care Bears for a post about a song I listen to when happy. During my search for an appropriate picture, I came across this... this thing you now see at the top of this post, and to say that the picture above is inappropriate would be accurate but really, there's just so much more wrong about it that I'm having trouble keeping my brain from exploding.
I mean, the Internet is rife with budding artists uploading all manner of crude imagery. I get that, I really do, but this is a case of someone having taken the time to envision a nude Skeletor lounging atop Cringer's skin and then bringing that morbid thought to life as a painting. Not a sketch, not Adobe photoshop, but a bona fide painting, as in someone went all Bob Ross to a canvas for the purpose of... just what exactly, I haven't the slightest clue and, furthermore, was this a commission, or a pet project? Again, I have no idea.
What I do know, however, is that my mind is officially blown. I guess you win this round, Internet.
Posted by Kmork at 2:17 AM
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Song That Makes You Happy
That's easy: triangle kimbap! What, that's not a song, you say? My stomach disagrees*! It has been dancing all of last night and into today.
Fine. A song-song. Since I'm an Objectivist (not really) and a hedonist (assuredly), I think I've documented enough the songs that make me happy on this -- hallowed -- document of online onanism, so I'll try to come up with another that I haven't mentioned.
You know what? No song has ever made me happier right now than
It's on Youtube.
* with you! No, wait...with me. Shit. [runs to bathroom]**
** Is this meta-meta-text? I'm not sure. I'm dizzy and I've forgotten my own name.***
*** Shit, now I'm an old Japanese man in Limbo.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 7:18 AM
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A song I hate?
I hate "Mickey" by Toni Basil so much that I'm not going to spell check OR fact check this post. I hate "Micky" so much that I'm passing this hate on to you. "Mickey" is a song that has made me support capital punishment, to advocate date-rape drugs. Part of my hatred for "Mickey" stems from its ubiquitous presence on/at Korean informercials, store openings, spelling bees; but what makes me hate it the most is that it's a really fucking annoying song. It's like watching children pee their pants. It's like watching a deer eat a flower and then explode. It's like finding out your favorite author was a child molester.
"Micky" can go to Hell. That the song was ever considered new wave is a slap in the face to all of the early 80's pioneers who actually made good songs that don't make people want to throw up.
And if by chance you like "Mickey," I won't hold it against you, but I totally fucking will.
It's on YouTube.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 7:48 AM
Monday, July 25, 2011
Just for fun, I pulled up Google Analytics a few hours ago to gather information about this, the 43rd greatest blog in the multiverse, from the period of June 24, 2011 to July 24, 2011 and thought I'd share a bit with you, Dedicated Readers.
Visitors by Country
1. United States
3. United Kingdom
4. South Korea
Nothing terribly surprising here, though I am a tad disappointed in you, Canada. To think, I once delightfully referred to you as The Maple Menace and yet here you are, playing second fiddle to the U.S. For shame, Canada, for shame.
As for you, United Kingdom: This tears me in two entirely distinct directions, given that on the one hand, many of the coolest people I've met (to say nothing of the readers of our very blog) are from the U.K. and yet, at the very same time, some of the biggest, douche-baggiest fuckheads I've had the displeasure of coming across come from there as well. Regardless, you're still okay in my book, U.K. - but would you be offended if I renewed my License (Licence!) to Kill to help even things out?
Nice work, France and Germany. Welcome to the party!
..... But seriously, Australia, you're gonna let them talk shit about you like that? Oy!
Somewhat unexpected, but hey, nice to see you guys. There's a keg on tap in the back. Enjoy.
Dude. You're slipping, man. Don't get me wrong, you're amazing -you made video games great again, amongst so much else- but nineteenth? Don't leave me hanging, Japan! Look, I even prepared some Asahi and strawberry-flavored Cheetos for you. Stay awhile.
30. United Arab Emirates
Yeah... I guess you can hang out here, though you'll have to bring your own tasteless non-alcoholic beer 'cause that's not how we roll and just so you know, no one gives a shit how much money (alongside a lack of genuine class) you bring to the table.
Yes...Yes! I won't lie, Iceland. You're pretty sexy in so many ways. Let me show you to my bedroom...
PK will lead to a democratic Qatar! (Insert Sixty-nine joke here, too.)
First things first, the big guns:
Jane March - I don't know why so many people are obsessed with the actress but the fact is, so many people are (and they come to PK because of one unassuming picture Forbes once used as a header).
Chloe Sevigny sucks dick/ Chloe Sevigny swallow/ Chloe Sevigny Brown Bunny/ Sevigny cum in mouth/ (any possible variation of the topic) - Good lord! Once upon a time, Sparkles aka Harrison Forbes aka Whatever made a post about actress Chloe Sevigny's decision to perform fellatio upon co-star Vincent Gallo in The Brown Bunny and as one may guess, that post gets daily hits up the wazoo. Decades (cough, cough) from now, long after each and every contributor to this blog is dead and buried, Chloe Sevigny sucks dick and swallows will continue to be the keyword of choice for sexually frustrated males around the globe.
Cassie Steele - See Jane March above. Same story, different lady. Oddly enough, the Cassie Steele picture was posted by yours truly. So... Keep up the good searches, twentysomething males!
Nancy Lang - Notice a trend developing here? This time, Forbes interviewed Korean artist and "celebrity" Nancy Lang who is, well, doing something with her life now, though I can't be bothered to do a Google search of my own.
And now for some of the lesser searches:
Chicken Wire, the Harbinger of Heavenly Annotation/ Sling Khidorah - Wow. I have stalkers! Or fans. Or creepers. Whatever the case may be, keep up the good work, though I'm tempted to point out that you could bookmark this blog on your respective web browser or, dare I say it, become a follower; and you can still search for me if that's what you're into. (I love you, by the way.)
Richard Dreyfuss jerk - In answer to your query: yes, he is
Jack London racist - In answer to your query: yes, he probably was
are potatoes safe to eat raw - In answer to your query: maybe
are double happiness cigarettes good - In answer to your query: fuck no
athlete's foot in the mouth - You're probably looking for this post. It's a good song, even if it pains me to say so.
Castlevania Order of Essaca - Did you mean Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia? I can only hope you did.
mack 10 westside slaughterhouse sampled interpolated - I haven't the slightest clue what this search was about or how it led someone to Psychedelic Kimchi, but I'm enamored with the absurdity of it all!
spunk tales - I know exactly how this relates to Psychedelic Kimchi and yes, I'll get around to doing another post sometime soon.
Kurt Russell personality - Let me be frank: anything to do with Kurt Russell is inherently awesome (except for Captain Ron, perhaps) and we'll take what we can get.
Okay, my eyes are beginning to bleed. Keep searching, searchers!
* What a bunch of shit those movies were, yeah? I'm just saying.
Posted by Kmork at 2:11 AM
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
In the parking lot of a Perkins Restaurant & Bakery at half-past midnight, Todd stands watching as Megan, with lit cigarette between her lips, rummages though a garbage sack in the back seat of a lifted Ford Taurus station wagon. Chad stands beside him but he's more concerned with a takeout box containing the smoked turkey reuben he'd ordered specifically to go. Megan removes a can of fluorescent orange spray paint from the sack and proceeds to inscribe an enormous 'X' upon the crotch of her ragged blue jeans, after which she tosses the can back into the car. For the first time in weeks, Chad bellows with laughter and observes that X marks the twa- when Megan interrupts him by slapping the open box along with its contents up into his face and down upon the cement below. She then pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and flicks the cigarette at Todd alongside a command to start the car before stomping off toward the restaurant. Todd listlessly watches her pass though the windowed vestibule and into the Men's restroom while, much to his dismay, Chad stoops down to gather his sandwich, at which point Todd can't help but ponder just how, let alone why he got himself involved with such utterly incorrigible maniacs; and yet he goes to start the car anyway.
The Raconteurs - Consoler of the Lonely
Arcade Fire - Half Light II (No Celebration)
El-P - Run the Numbers
Radiohead - Let Down
Snow Patrol - Disaster Button
The Killers - My List
Playradioplay! - Forgiveness, the Enviable Trait
White Zombie - Blood, Milk and Sky
(It's a playlist, silly.)
Posted by Kmork at 5:17 PM
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Day 30 - Your favorite song at this time last year
Because, because, because... He didn't have the heart to say that she wouldn't have the heart to stay. Truth be told, she never did (get it).
One EskimO - Chocolate
Given that this evening's post is the final day of the 30-Day Song Challenge, I figured I'd share a few of the almost-made-it songs.
Day 01 - Your favorite song: Our Lady Peace - Happiness & The Fish
Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone: Foo Fighters - The Best of You
Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure: Hadouken! - Turn the Lights Out
Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio: Dragonette - Pick Up the Phone
Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh: Robbie Williams - Millennium
Day 29 - A song from your childhood: Duran Duran - A View to a Kill
Finally, I'd like to add my own category, just because it's me.
Day Zero - A theme from a video game to serve as your personal BGM: Mystery Music*
* If you can identify the game from which this music was lifted, you're officially awesome.**
** You're not allowed to play, Avis, but don't fret: you're cool enough as is.
Posted by Kmork at 12:31 AM
Friday, July 15, 2011
Day 29 - A song from your childhood
So many choices! As an MTV kid with two elder siblings, I was literally inundated with aural and visual stimulation of, at times, questionable standards (as any longtime reader of this blog could attest). Be that as it may, it stands to reason that today's challenge would be difficult insomuch that there are just so many songs from which to choose; an equally arduous task was to select a song that people wouldn't expect. I mean, if one were to ask my sister, for example, she'd probably suggest Sammy Hagar's 'I Can't Drive 55' on account of the fact that there was a period in which I was convinced that anything the Red Rocker touched turned to solid gold (red gold!) and while true -the part about my feelings, not Hagar's abilities- it's simply too obvious. Similarly, my brother would probably shrug and propose Weird Al Yankovic's parody of The Kinks' 'Lola' entitled 'Yoda' but it's pretty stupid (well that, and I don't have the song to upload).
As stated before, my preoccupation with MTV colored my musical preferences at the time and so, if anything, today's song had to be one that was a part of my childhood with regards to both sight and sound. Along those lines, I contemplated the Greg Kihn Band's 'Jeopardy' since, really, the video creeped me out as a child and had lasting effects on my view of marriage but the thing is that I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this on PK before, so that's old news, you know?
Yeah, that song was out, sure, but it did get me thinking about other videos that poked and prodded my impressionable mind, and while not frightening per se, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' 1985 hit 'Don't Come Around Here No More' is one of those addling experiences. The video itself (and you can find it on YouTube) consisted of, amongst other things, Tom Petty as the Mad Hatter and Alice being eaten as cake. Tell me that's not surreal to a kid and I'll tell you that you're surreal as a person. Half-facietiously, of course.
Speaking of surreal, here is the song's origin, courtesy of Wikipedia:
The original inspiration was a romantic encounter that Stewart had with Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac. On The Howard Stern Show, Dave Stewart explained that the title's phrase was actually uttered by Stevie. She had broken up with Joe Walsh the night before, and invited Dave Stewart to her place for a party after an early Eurythmics show in Los Angeles. Dave didn't know who she was at the time, but went anyway. When the party goers all disappeared to a bathroom for a couple of hours to snort cocaine, he decided to go upstairs to bed. He woke up at 5am to find Stevie Nicks in his room trying on Victorian clothing and described the entire scenario as very much reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. Later that morning, she told Walsh, "Don't come around here no more". (link)
Tom Petty? David Stewart? Stevie Nicks? Joe Walsh? Victorian clothing? Cocaine? I mean come on! That's a recipe for pure strangeness.
Anyway, here's the song.
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - Don't Come Around Here No More
Posted by Kmork at 1:02 AM
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Red Lion is not what Michelle would normally refer to as a happening place. Constructed in the early eighties, The Red Lion was, even then, what folks considered a throwback: wood and leather everything, dimly lit, and quaintly drab, like a pub for those without the slightest taste. Over the years, however (or so she had been informed by some of the establishment’s older clientele) some modern additions had been made, much to the chagrin of those same stubbornly fossilized patrons. Strands of red Christmas-style lights had been run along the edges of the ceiling and atop the bar proper, as if to enhance the mood, while tables and chairs alike had been removed to make way for a small area in which local jazz acts could set up camp to entertain the barflies. But this was Thursday night, which meant that musicians were nowhere to be seen, replaced by a karaoke machine, a microphone, and a slew of intoxicated dreamers singing their hearts out. Michelle isn’t one of them, though she enjoys the spectacle of it all from the comfort of a cushy stool at the bar, sipping her vodka tonic very, very slowly to extend the evening as necessary.
She patiently, silently sits, studying her drink, her fingers, and the pack of Newports that sit beside an empty tin ashtray as an elderly gentleman croons the final lines of Don McLean’s American Pie accompanied by numerous intoxicated compatriots. Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing... This’ll be the day that I die. The crowd, both young and old, applaud though Michelle abstains. She’s never much cared for the song herself, and the man she’s been watching off and on throughout the evening, the one sitting at a table with three others is shouting accolades, so she’s definitely not going to participate. His name is Rodger McCormack, and he’s a bastard of the highest order. At nearly forty years old, Rodger’s going bald, wearing a polo shirt, and though she can’t prove it, probably molesting Michelle’s fourteen year-old daughter, Sophia. More than probably, in fact, though her daughter says nothing and the bastard is effortlessly indignant. Aware of her presence at The Red Lion, Rodger nevertheless gleefully enjoys the evening’s karaoke debacle, thoroughly dismissive of Michelle’s glares.
“Nice glasses,” a masculine voice comments from somewhere nearby to her right. Instinctively, Michelle shoots daggers toward this interloper because if there’s one thing that pisses her off, it’s people mocking her choice in eyewear; yet the look on the man’s face -attractively pudgy with an adorably bulbous nose- radiates a genuine interest and his eyes speak the language of kindness, so she relents and cautiously thanks him for the compliment. He asks if the seat beside her is taken, and it is, but by someone who’s about due for a karaoke performance all her own. Michelle tells him that it’s now his, and the man flashes her the biggest big-mouthed smile she’s been privy to in quite a while, to which she responds in kind, albeit in less gratuitous fashion. Brazenly, the man plops down on the stool, removes a cigarette from her pack, lights up, asks the bartender for two sloe gin fizzes, and then informs Michelle that her dress (a flimsy, sleeveless jet black number which barely covers her knees) is way too classy for a place like this. She chuckles. All things considered, this guy’s alright; and coupled with his black and white vertically-striped shirt, quite attractive. This is when the sound of synthesizers burst forth from the mammoth speakers of the karaoke machine and amidst the cheers and the clapping and the nods from the aging horde, Michelle spots Megan take the stage, microphone in hand. Decked out in an urban camouflage print tank top, charcoal cargo pants and, to state the painfully obvious, hair dyed blue, white and red, the woman is a sight to behold, and it’s one the crowd adores, for Megan’s nothing if not an animal of magnetism.
“Now this place is bit too small for dancing,” Megan playfully hisses into the microphone, “but it sure is dark enough.” Some drunken old guy pushing sixty, sitting alone at a corner table roars in approval. This is when Michelle should pay less attention to the nice man beside her and more upon that fucking child molester at the table nearest to the karaoke machine but then again, Rodger is now Megan’s quarry, and thus the matter will take care of itself.
I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothing to say
As Megan wows the enthralled battalion, the man seated beside Michelle introduces himself as Thomas with an accent which informs her that he’s not from the Midwest, let alone the United States proper, though due to the ruckus playing out it’s tough to ascertain just where he calls home. She’s enamored with exoticism, however, and the timbre of his voice is intriguing.
This gun’s for hire even if we’re just dancing in the dark
Thomas continues the courtship by telling Michelle that he’s from Brighton. That he takes the time to clarify Brighton as a place in the United Kingdom somewhat perturbs her (as if she weren’t aware of the outside world!) but it’s understandable given the locale. She laughs, partially due to his superfluous comment, but also because Megan has her free arm wrapped around the neck of a inebriated retiree.
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!
From what he’s offered thus far, Michelle’s convinced that Thomas, web developer extraordinaire, is a pretty nice guy, and if there’s one thing she needs these days, these nights, this place is someone who is straightforward and most of all, kind. Between verses, Michelle observes her patriotically-haired friend steal a shot of whiskey from Rodger’s table, much to everyone’s delight.
You sit around getting older - there’s a joke here somewhere and it’s on me
Everyone’s getting older and Michelle knows it; but she’s not old yet and there’s still hope to be had, even at The Red Lion. Michelle lights a cigarette and laughs at her suitor’s quip about Americans and their taste in tasteless music, mostly because it’s funny but also because it’s true.
I need a love reaction, come on now baby give me just one look
Thunderous, unadulterated applause ensues, with some onlookers standing in ovation following Megan’s sparkling performance of Springsteen’s hallowed hymn. Someone hands her a frosty mug of beer, which she gladly accepts just after setting a Marlboro Red ablaze, only to place the mug atop the karaoke machine, at which point the bar’s manager promptly responds by placing a coaster beneath the soon-to-be-sweating glass. The rabble is hers to command and they love it, for the power bestowed by popularity is far more spiritous than any firewater. “Everybody, please! Thank you, thank you,” she coos into the microphone, to which the crowd responds by screaming for an encore. “I’ve been told there’s a one song, one singer rule in play, but...” she trails off, shrugging to no one in particular, though it’s crystal clear that a burden has been placed upon the shoulders of the next person in line for control of microphone, a beefy man in his late forties, to relinquish his nonexistent control of the situation. The displaced contestant sighs in defeat, though he recognizes the gust of popular opinion and thus bows out with considerable grace. “You’re awesome, guy, you know that? Really. Okay, so let’s get another song rolling, and I’d like to keep things in the same, I don’t know, era or something.” Megan then whispers something to the manager, who is the man in charge of implementing the plan, and he changes songs accordingly.
The swarm of attentive onlookers hoots, hollers, and claps heartily as an all-too-familiar acoustic prelude is pierced by an equally unmistakable electric lead-in. Megan drops her cigarette into the mug, only to then take a sip from it without a second thought. “Let’s do this,” she growls playfully, all while eyeing an especially fair-weather friend make short work of a sloe gin fizz at the bar.
Ooh, something’s got a hold of me now
As she sings ebulliently, Megan has a flash of memory, as she often does, of this time she attended a self-defense class in high school. The instructor was a grizzled man in his late forties, creased by years of obviously hard living, who had a no-nonsense approach to women's safety. In the event of attempted rape, for example, he’d directed his students to pretend to go along with their attacker’s wishes by beckoning to them for a kiss, only for the purpose of tearing his upper lip off with their teeth as this would result in an immeasurable amount of bleeding and, subsequently, death. In the case of being assailed by a large dog, the instructor had informed them that the only surefire way to incapacitate the offending animal was to thrust one’s fist down the canine’s throat, thereby choking the beast. On more than one occasion, a student voiced uncertainty as to whether they were capable of doing such things, and the instructor’s response had been, somewhat predictably, that they should then be prepared to endure rape, mutilation, or worse. As one could guess, it was tremendously inspirational.
I think I’m in love and my life’s looking up. I think I’m in love ‘cause I can’t get enough. (No, no, no.) I think I’m in love... It’s gotta be love
Megan gently plants the sole of her shoe upon the shoulder of the one recently identified as Rodger, who appears as enraptured by her performance as she is with the song itself. She winks at him immoderately while her open eye posits that his visage, bathed in the reddened light of the aptly-named Red Lion, resembles a bloodied turnip of sorts, which is something she quite fancies. For his part, the man known as Rodger beams, blissfully unaware of the thoughts which traverse her mind.
It controls me, makes me do all these things that I do for you
She gingerly pours a shot of whiskey down Rodger’s throat with her free hand, much to the boisterous delight of everyone at the table and beyond. Between the song, shouts and swallows Megan picks up the distinct sound of Michelle’s sardonic sigh; yet the inherent cynicism of said exhalation merely accentuates this gloriously inglorious moment, and Megan revels in the abject absurdity of it all.
Seducing the elderly, the enfeebled and the inebriated alike, each of whom crave a moment with the Bomb-Popped woman whose appearance belies her age, Megan makes ample use of the limited space available to ply her trade; slinking to and fro, she ensnares the crowd with her trademarked affectation of decidedly unabashed yet jubilantly social insouciance. Her thoughts, however, are of a German shepherd named Rathbone that was neither an assailant nor offensive. If nothing else, the dog was the beloved pet of a pair of easygoing retirees, yet there was a little boy who not once, twice, but thrice stuck his nose in a place it hadn’t belonged and by extension, alas, poor, rambunctious Rathbone...
Baby, how you do it. There must be something to it. Babe, I know it’s gotta be love
... But memories shall not discount what the rabble sees now, which is a slender nymph singing her heart out atop a creaky wooden chair amidst carmine lights and otherwise dreary sights. Waving and swinging her free hand, she beckons the crowd to join in the chorus, to which the mob responds with the utmost pride. And everyone chants
It’s gotta be love (love!) and my life’s looking up (love!)
Posted by Kmork at 10:20 PM
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Day 28 - A song that makes you feel guilty
Sometimes drastic measures are necessary; the kind which challenge conventions of integrity for the sake of efficacy, even if such maneuvers elicit notions of remorse. Said actions produce the desired result and yes, the outcome is for the best, but you still can't help but wonder if the end justified the means - and the End is all that remains, yet here you are.
Ozymandias: I did the right thing, didn't I? It all worked out in the end.
Dr. Manhattan: "In the end"? Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.
The Killers - Jenny Was a Friend of Mine
Posted by Kmork at 12:34 AM
Monday, July 11, 2011
Day 27 - A song that you wish you could play
A song I wish I could play? There are quite a few of those (as you'd imagine) but one that stands out in my mind is:
Night Ranger - Don't Tell Me You Love Me
And I'm talking specifically about the ability to play an electric guitar at that level of skill. Don't get me wrong: there are plenty of better guitarists out there but nevertheless 'Don't Tell Me You Love Me' is a good example what I wish I could accomplish with a six-string in these hands of mine. Just think of what people would say!
Sling, would you play guitar at our twentieth wedding anniversary? After all these years, Sister Christian is still our song.
I've been asked to teach a course entitled 'Awesome 1982' and I'd like for you to be a guest speaker. Bring your guitar.
Hey Sling, would you wail on your ax for me right here, right now? Never mind that we're in the middle of my child's eighth birthday party.
Sling? This is Harrison Forbes. I'm forming a shitty Eighties revival band, nay, supergroup comprised entirely of people I deem 'super' and guess what? You're in.
Look, Sling, I said I loved you and that was a lie, I admit, but I needed a laptop, you know. Nevertheless, I've always thought of you as an amazingly talented guitarist, simply amazing, and while we're on the topic of awesome, it would totally radical if you could give me your credit card number.
[Feel free to add a few statements of your own in the comment box]
Ah, to be a talented musician...
Posted by Kmork at 6:25 PM
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Day 26 - A song that you can play on an instrument
Have I ever told you that as a youngster I could play the piano?* Not well, mind you, but yeah, I could play a few tunes. Granted, today's song wasn't one of them but the piano portion is simple enough that even I could pull it off with a bit of practice; and it's a good thing, too since I'd hate to mess up such a fantastic song.
Great Northern - Our Bleeding Hearts
* I may have, but it's important to note that I've been posting on Psychedelic Kimchi five years come this November and I'll be damned if I can remember what I posted yesterday let alone fifty-six months ago.
Posted by Kmork at 12:30 AM
Friday, July 08, 2011
Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh
Ah, the Beastie Boys. Not only are they proof that Generation X used to be cool, they're also living testament to the notion that white boys can do something hip - and there's nothing derisive about my statement whatsoever. I fondly recall evenings spent in the basement of one J.T. Yenter,* during which time there were discussions about -amongst much else- the best song on the band's debut album, License to Ill. My stance then, as well as now, is that No Sleep till Brooklyn wins hands down for no other reason than that the video features a motherfuckin' gorilla wailing on his motherfuckin' ax; and while that may not make me laugh, it does make me smirk.
Beastie Boys - No Sleep till Brooklyn
* "Don't you know who I am? I'm J. fucking T. of S.T. fucking C."
Posted by Kmork at 2:23 AM
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Day 24 - A song that you want to play at your funeral
This one's a weird one for me, considering that I don't spend much time contemplating death, let alone a funeral. Granting that, I think that when I finally reach the end of it all, I'll pass on a funeral since, after all, who'd want to sit though that boring shit, anyway? Cremation, perhaps, or maybe a pyre would suffice lest I return from the grave, only to feast upon the brains of those I once loved.
'Kidding' aside, I don't think I'd want a funeral playlist or some crap like that, but I would like people to remember how I -often- felt about life (and my place within its folds).
Local H - Hand to Mouth
Hey! You already used a Local H song!
Yeah. Is that against the rules? If so, I'll be dead anyway.
Hm. Was the song meant to be poignant, profound, or pestilential?
None of the above. Now sit still and let me chomp on your brain.
Posted by Kmork at 12:13 AM
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Day 23 - A song that you want to play at your wedding
I've never given any serious consideration to marriage. Okay, that's a lie: I once thought about it wholeheartedly and without reservation, but maybe I was too stupid to carry out my desire. Perhaps the two of us were thickheaded and unwilling to compromise or, perchance, unable to dissolve the differences that separated the two of us as seemingly intelligent individuals. Then again, perhaps it was my fault alone. I may never know for certain, but I do know that had we been married, we could have agreed upon the following song. Hopefully.
Björk - Unison
Posted by Kmork at 1:48 AM