Monday’s coming like a jail on wheels

I had the misfortune of watching the last 40 minutes of the GRAMMY©®™ awards last night, and they were even more dull and predictable than I’d remembered. I haven’t watched in many years…let’s see, I think the last time was when Christopher Cross won an armload of statues.

That was a long time ago, and it was clear to me then that this was not a celebration of music, but of music selling. There wasn’t one nominated artist I gave half a shit about, so either I was out of the loop or the GRAMMYS©®™ were. Or both.

Anyway, Joe Strummer died recently, and apparently one of the event planners thought a tribute was in order, which is weird enough if you look at all the other music biz folks that croaked over the last twelve months, but they went ahead with it, and it was spellbinding, man!

Um hm.

My main question is why was BROOCE, who had obviously only heard the song London Calling a couple of times in rehearsal, up there singing and straining his neck muscles in his best imitation of “punk rawk”? I can see why Elvis Costello was there, and maybe Dave Grohl (maybe), but damn it man, BROOCE should have kept his wiener out of that fire.

If I ever see BROOCE in public anywhere I’m going to punch him in his pseudo workingman nose and spill his billionaire blood all over the sidewalk, because that there was some fucked up shit!

My disdain for BROOCE and all things E Street almost made me forget how this sad exhibition of dry, stinky cheese served to drive home the point of how much ass “tributes” suck in general. The only thing any “tribute” ever accomplishes is giving you a greater appreciation of the tributee when you see how badly lesser talents butcher and mangle their work.

And kids, BROOCE is a lesser talent than Joe Strummer. Every day, in every way. It eats him up inside that he isn’t really the blue-collar factory worker that he portrayed himself as early on in his career in order to curry favor with the New Jersey bell bottom jean hippies of the early ’70’s.

BROOCE never held down a job any more difficult that stringing a guitar, and his celebrated onstage “passion” is as phony as his straight white teeth and Gold’s Gym ass. Garth Books is more convincing. Cher is more passionate.

GRAMMY©®™, GRAMMY©®™, GRAMMY©®™ – what were you thinking? Why not throw Gene Simmons and Pee Wee Herman up there too? And where the fuck was BONO? They must have had to lock him in a small room and beat him into unconsciousness with broomsticks to keep him away from that “tribute.” Him and STING. Fuckers.

There is no justice in a world where Joe Strummer dies and the rest of these suntanned toad lickers thrive.

God is dead. Jesus loves the Stooges.

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