Menu Close

Tag: Horrible (page 2 of 10)

Jan Terri’s “Wock & Woll Santa”

Ok, so the title is actually “Rock & Roll Santa,” but listen to it and tell me she’s not saying a word that sounds quite a lot like that damn dish the Chinese use to fry up your lo mein.

You all know who Jan Terri is. We’ve all seen the atrocious “Losing You”. It has scarred us all. Now, prepare to be furthered scarred by “Wock & Woll Santa”. This song and video should have been throw to the wolves at the moment of birth, but this is the internet and nothing ever dies. In fact, the internet is Christ resurrecting the Lazarus of bad memories; you think something is dead and gone forever, and then it rises back up horrible and fresh and shameful.

Thanks, internet. You make my life wonderful and terrible.

The Man-Eating Tree’s “Armed”

This is the worst piece of shit I have heard in quite a long time. Listen to the dude’s voice. It’s terrible. Especially during the first verse. When he says “paint-e-e-ed” I want to shove a knife into his throat and cut out his vocal chords. Affected and terrible. He can barely sing, but he’s trying to do all these vocal somersaults which result in him tumbling awkwardly into the wall. The engineer has fixed his voice during the chorus enough that it is passable and then layered the shit out of it so you don’t notice how bad he is.

Apparently this band is spawned out of Sentenced, another Euro metal band I have no fucking love for. Fuck Sentenced and fuck The Man-Eating Tree. This band sucks and the video is boring.

Ok, I’ll make one exception. Sentenced’s “Excuse Me While I Kill Myself” is a damned catchy song.

The Onion – Pop Star’s Single, ‘Booty Wave’, Most Likely Civilization’s Downfall


Pop Star’s Single, ‘Booty Wave’, Most Likely Civilization’s Downfall

Yet again The Onion hits the nail square on the head. Mocking the increasingly trashy pop stars of our day and age, the clip just kills it with every line. Incredible, sad, and funny. Horrifying, really, in its absolute truth. Although, I am pretty confident that the fake video in the above talk show clip is actually less insipid than the Alexandra Stan video I’m posting below.

Surprising right? With the lengths The Onion went to make their parody as ridiculous as they could they could still not top the bad taste of some shitty Eastern European producer and his overly made-up 5 of a pop starlet.

Ortega + Olympic Gymnasts, a Match Made in Advertising HELL

What fucking client greenlit this stinking pile of mediocrity? And then was happy with the result? Oh. It was Ortega. Gymnasts should not be allowed to “act”. Those tacos look fucking horrible. I’ve never in my entire life seen something that made me think a taco was more disgusting than this ad.

Holy fucking shit, this is the worst. Just the worst. I am embarrassed for everyone on this. Make my tacos pop my ass.

Howie Mandel’s “Watusi”

This morning Jesse texted me.

Have you seen the Howie Mandel Watusi video? I thought of you…

I replied.

E-mail it to me.

He e-mailed me the link.

I replied.

I have never seen that before, but it might have changed my life. For the worse.

He replied.

Yeah, right?
It’s amazing- I hate it so much – yet it also predates Tim & Eric and reminds me so much of their aesthetic and what they mock and love – but it has no irony – but then that makes it more real – but the real is a bad – but I hate it – I can’t stop watching it – I love it – I hate Howie Mandel – but I understand myself better – but I don’t like what I now know.

I finished the chain off with this message.

You are getting Black Lasered in about 6 minutes.

I present this here for you all so that you understand what it is I am working with. There are definitely bright points, this being one of them.

A Letter to My Brain To Open a Discussion on the Topic of Focus.

Dearest brain,

I feel like you and I have been friends for a long time. Sure, there were the years I abused you, but I’ve always been a better friend to you than my body. I mean, that’s not to say my body has ever treated me badly, but we’ve had a strained relationship. We’ve always had a bit of a disconnect and I’ve never gone out of my way to take care of my body since I reside so wholly in my mind. Brain, you know, I know it. It’s the truth. Sorry, body, I’m trying to be better to you, but you cannot change the past. We’ll get back to you in a little bit.

So, brain, why are you thwarting every attempt I’ve made the last three days to do any work? HMMmmmmmm?? You allow me just brief glimpses of focus, 2, maybe 4 minutes tops. Why not just let me focus on the shit I need to do? What the hell is up with you?

I’ve noticed a pattern with you, brain. I’ve noticed that when I am hungover or tired or feeling shitty, you have a much easier time letting me get down to work. What’s that about? Must I constantly be hungover/tired/sick to accomplish anything? Must I wait until the middle of the night to have creative revelations and be focused enough to actually make them real? Why cannot I not just feel ok and awake and healthy and not have you bothering me all the time by thinking of 80 million things all at once.

For example, today, in my effort to reacquaint myself with my body, I’m well rested, not hungover in the slightest (surprising since I had a birthday dinner last night for a good friend, nor any drop to drink), and I’ve eaten. EATEN! I never eat! All remarkable things considering the state of Joe the last few years. But I can’t do anything for longer than a minute before I get distracted and look away. This stupid letter has taken me hours of writing a sentence, fucking off for a while, pacing the office, watching some dailies, trimming my selects, stretching on the skate ramp, digging through the pantry for snacks, and then sitting back down and writing another sentence.

Brain! I’ve got work to do! This Safeway turkey thing won’t cut itself! I just need like 2 hours from you. Come on, you can do it. I can crank out something in 2 hours. I know you know exactly where we need to go with it; let’s just bang it out and be done. Why fight me? Why fight me all the time?! Is this what ADD feels like? If it does, I feel sorry for people who are afflicted with this. Fuck, it’s not like this is new for me. Maybe I’m all attention-deficit too. Who knows. I’m not a doctor, brain, though I do know how to remove sutures. That’s all right.

Wait! Back to the matter at hand! Brain! Focus! Help! There’s nothing out there that cannot wait! Just shut up for a minute and let’s pay our work attention so we can go back to being a flighty, distracted pair again. Please? Please? PLEASE?

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

PS – Body, sorry, told you I’d get back to you. Yes, I am scared about the possibility of 100 pullups, 200 pushups, and 300 squats for time tomorrow. Yes, I know, the squats not so scary, and neither are the pullups (assisted, of course), but 200 pushups. Holy shit, I know. Maybe we go tonight instead and do 1200 meters, 30 deadlifts with weight, and 63 pullups? Decisions! Should we do both?

Speak, the Hungarian Rapper

“Sometimes people make a war.”

“Don’t know what it’s for.”

“Business.”

Oh, so you did know what it was for?

This is genuinely horrible. Unlike the previous post featuring Bangs, this is just plain bad. There’s nothing redeeming about this at all. Here, I think an early line from the song perfectly exemplifies what I mean: “I hope my black brothers feel the same like me. Dre, Snoop, Puff, L, Tupac Shakur, rest in peace, he was the best.” What the fuck, Speak? What the fuck.

“Nobody wants a war. Life is short. Yeeah, come on.”

It would hesitate to even call this trash “rapping”. It’s more of a spoken-word track à la Bill Shatner’s brand of musical violence, but without being funny. He’s so earnest, so deep, so heartfelt that I cannot help but feel sickened at his outpouring of emotion. Speak wants so badly to have written the next great hip-hop ballad, but it comes off as so fucking trite that it’s laughable. God, and the group of backup singers?! Holy crap.

When he threw up the dove at the end, I threw up for real.

Thanks (but no thanks), Monica!

A Letter to Ugg Boots In Reference to My Extreme Hatred For Them

Ugg Boots,

You’ll notice, Ugg Boots, that I did not use the word “dear” to begin this letter. I don’t want you to hold the mistaken assumption that I have anything but the greatest contempt for you. But I don’t believe that even conveys how utterly I hate you. I possess nothing but the sincerest enmity, the most profound disdain, the most resounding loathing for you. You inflict ruin on the feet and ankles of women everywhere, women gullible enough to believe that how they appear to other people is less important than that their little toesies are warm and cuddly. You are emblematic of the laziness that is ruining humanity. For every silly woman wearing you with tucked in sweatpants and a sweatshirt or North Face fleece (the gray and black one, you know the one I am talking about) I want to kick a defenseless puppy. I shed a tear for the future of the human race every time I see a pink pair attempting to navigate the filthy Manhattan snowbanks. I want to choke someone until I see the light drain out of their eyes every time I see a mother/daughter pair dressed similarly, wearing Uggs, and holding shopping bags.

You are the ruin of The United States of America.

As a Californian, I never experienced a real winter until I moved to the North East. The worst we had it, Ugg Boots, was 40 degree days, perhaps a frost over night. But it never snowed. Never sustained sub-freezing temperatures. Never had to worry that the wind chill was going to make it feel like temperatures below 0°F (-18°C). Yet people would flip their living shit about the “cold” and how “freezing” it was. And that’s when you came out, Ugg Boots, on the feet every silly, stupid college girl going to class in her pajamas. It would be 60°F (16°C) and girls would be out with fleeces and Uggs and I would want to stab them.

Even here in New York, you’ll start seeing your hideous visage as early as September once nature delicately hints that perhaps maybe it might just not be warm enough to wear flip flops anymore. Then I must endure you until May when the sweat on a person’s brow suggests that perhaps maybe it might just be too warm to continue wearing vile, wool-lined skin tubes your feet.

That segues nicely into another gripe of mine. Winter boots need not be ugly, shapeless masses of material slipped onto the foot. They can be stylish, too. They can accentuate a figure, the can add height, they can be designed. But you, horrid defiler, you are not. You make women—even women who might have lovely, slender ankles—appear as if they have wooden pylons for ankles. The only thing I find more unflattering than you, Ugg Boots, is track marks.

Look, I’ll admit something to you, something that pains me to no end. I once purchased a pair of you for an ex. I know, I know. The self-loathing will never cease. It was our first Christmas and she had moved to New York not long before. I got her a pair of the black ones and she wore them for years until it became painfully and slushily obvious that you were not up to the job of keeping her feet dry as well as warm against the New York winter.

In summation, you can go to hell along with wedges, sweatpants with words on the ass, Ed Hardy clothes, and Tap Out. A winter without you would be the most pleasant summer of my life.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.