A friend of mine hates mash ups. The whole idea and shebang of taking two shitty tunes and making another shitty tune out of it, or ruining two good songs and transforming it into a shitty tune, pisses him off to no end. So much so, he is incapable of stifling his grief out loud.
In 1986, Wham! officially broke up. Truth is, it was a somber day for Andrew Ridgeley. George Michael had to have some kind of inkling of an idea that he was going to go the solo artist route. The band thing was only holding him back from greater success and sexual acts in public toilets. It makes sense that Andrew Ridgeley, more commonly known as the other guy with no talent of Wham!, you know, the guy who danced, but didn’t sing (he may have sung “jitterbug”, yet, I have doubts that he could sing that low.), was not heard from again, until the death of George Michael.
Marvin Gaye was fatally shot by his dad on April 1, 1984. At the risk of sounding racist, he was a much better performer than Wham!
“In hindsight, I could have had more empathy. History tends to be kinder to those.”
War is hell. Christmas in Nazi Germany, 1941 was proof of that. Ask Dean Von Gundermann. He was twenty-five years old, and a good twenty-five years ahead of his time. He was a misplaced flower child stuck in an oppressive Hitler regime. He would have certainly flourished following around the Grateful Dead on the west coast of America. He would have looked absolutely adorable with long flowing ebony hair, wearing a dashiki or Nehru jacket. Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to start anew as I take a very cold shower.
“Coming back to life is greatly overrated. By overrated, I mean, it’s like dirty ass hairs, like a stiff paintbrush.”
It was Christmas Day, 2010. One year had passed since the expiration of Christmas Cop. He was molested awake by his very own stench. Thick make up collapsed atop his rapidly decaying face. Maggots, worms, and every creature in-between feasted on his body. It was gross, and oh my sweet dear Lord, that unbearable hoobastank®. He tried to cry out, and was greeted with profound silence. This sucked. He tried to move. He was met with the equivalence of silence for motion.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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