Review Summary: How the has-beens stole music.
35 of 43 thought this review was well writtenThere once was a band that thrashed with the best. Longhaired beer guzzlers who were up to any test. All the fans were obsessed with a cult like glee. Diehards proclaiming, “you’re not as metal as Metallica or me!” Then something foul happened as they lost their bassist named Cliff. In the blink of an eye this legendary band turned to ***. So it’s been told that with his demise left any sense of balls. Judging from the pansy haircuts and sobriety it’s evident they no longer gave a *** at all.
The Black Album was filled with overproduced commercial crap. The bros loved pumping iron to it so it sold in stacks. "It can’t get any worse!" the metal scene believed. Then Metallica shot a
Load on everyone’s dreams. What followed after that was a steady decline. People began to forget this group was ever divine.
St. Anger was critically panned into oblivion and
Death Magnetic was a half-assed return to form. It made sonic so depressed he found himself unable to jerk off to his gay porn.
Somewhere along the lines Metallica became self-aware, “we gotta do something people would never suspect before no one is left to care.” A balding idiot behind the drums expressed, “a collaboration is just what we need.” “***ing aye hey hey,” James agreed as he sipped on his non-alcoholic fruity flavored drink. “But who could we get that will make people bow to their knees?” Then Kirk jokingly suggested, “how about that old ***er Lou Reed?”
Robert worryingly insisted, “that guy from The Velvet Underground, what’s metal about that? It’ll never work, people will think we're smoking crack!” Then Lars chimed in, “that’s ***ing brilliant, it’ll be so unique.” “Uuuuuuh guys"…”SHUT THE *** UP ROBERT, WE DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!” “Then it’s settled,” said James, “call Lou up on the spot.” While fans around the world all collectively moaned, “there’s no way in hell this idea won’t suck cock.”
Of course Lou agreed to play his part in the role. After all, It beats sitting at home alone watching Matlock with nowhere to go. So he packed up his guitar and headed to the studio to meet with the gang. They immediately began to jam around with a false sense of gain. The band was cooking up their usual contrived stew, while Lou was in the background talking to himself with nothing to do. Overhearing his rambles Lars got a light bulb in his head. “What if while we play these hard riffs, instead of singing, Lou talks instead?”
“That sounds kind of ridiculous” James retorted in disbelief. “Not if he works his magic with some good old lyrical diversity.” By this time Lou had zoned out because he forgot to bring his anti-psychotic medicine. “HEY LOU!” Kirk shouted as he violently shook him but in his dementia Lou screamed, “Leave me alone you dirty Mexican.” Once he calmed down they started back up the session. James in a fit of writers block started looking around the room for things to mention. “Chair, couch, table, I am chair? I am the couch?…I AM THE TABLE!?!?.” Then out of nowhere Lou started expelling ludicrous fables.
Suddenly everyone began to look around with crazed eyes, as anyone should, when Lou continued to spout off like a demented version of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. “Hey guys, did I ever tell you about the time I would cut my legs and tits off when I think of Boris Karloff and Kinski in the dark moon?” At his wits end Robert dropped his bass in confusion and hollered, “*** YOU!”
In a pent up rage he exclaimed, “James is singing about ***ing tables, this nut is rambling like a hobo, this experiment sounds like *** and we’re all gonna come off like a bunch of homos.” The room went dead silent as Lou stumbled aggressively towards Robert as he grabbed his throat and began to spit. “I will swallow your sharpest cutter like a colored man’s dick.”
Lars started to maniacally laugh at this mind *** of a scene, “holy *** this dude is metal as ***.” Kirk interrupted, “You mean mental.” “Shut it Kirk you know what I mean.” The rest of the time was spent in constant fear of what the band had gotten themselves into. As Lars, in love with the madness of being a controlling douche, commanded every whacked out process be included in this abomination we know as
Lulu. The rest of the story is history and I don’t think I’ve ever heard an album so lame. At least this tale of an epic fail will make for a splendid review to read on Christmas day.
