Review Summary: This one time I wanted to move, so I invited a philosopher over so he could deconstruct my house.
Let me tell you a story. When I was a wee boy, aged all of 6, my father took me along on a work trip to a neighboring village. After we’d arrived there, he left me in the car and went inside a suspicious-looking warehouse, never to be seen again. While I waited in vain, a man approached the car. He knocked on the window and I rolled it down. He smiled at me and I felt a pit in my stomach. My father had warned me beforehand that there were pedos scuttling about the world, and that those guys were real jerks, and so he had taught me a fireproof way of warding me off.
So when the man said to me:
Do you want to see a magic trick?
I answered:
Sure, but after, can we f#ck?
Caught off-guard, the pedo stammered:
No, I don’t really do that sort of thing.
Ah, sure you do, I told him. It’s fun! All my friends have pedos on their speed-dial. I’m thinking of making an app for it. Call it Thrill’r.
Now look, the pedo said flustered. I just wanted to show you a magic trick.
It was then that I realized that the man was not a pedo after all, that he was actually Phil Collins! The two are easily confused, based on some physical stereotypes that Hollywood has enforced upon us about the way pedos look.
I felt guilty about slandering the man in my mind so haphazardly, but when I tried to make amends, Collins ran away, his eyes tearing up. I got out of the car to try and reason with him, and that’s when I noticed that one of his shoes had fallen off. I picked it up and have worn it around my neck since, as a lucky charm. I’m still waiting for that Cinderella moment when I bump into Phil again, and slide the shoe onto his dainty little foot and we can put all this pedo business behind us.
The point of that story is sometimes meeting your heroes can be less magical than you might think. This doesn’t apply to me as I’m not a fan of Phil Collins, on account of me not being an undersexed pallid middle-aged shmuck, but I think you understand where I’m going with this.
Which brings me smoothly and seamlessly into this – Kesha’s Rainbow is an album of a young woman unshackling herself. But let’s face it, you don’t want me reviewing this and I really don’t want to review it. So instead, here’s a series of random statements:
The Dalai Lama once said that killing in the name of religion is unthinkable. He was obviously wrong, since he was probably thinking about it as he said it, just from mind/speech association.
Not all religion is bad of course. The official ISIS food blog has a recipe for apple pie that’s just dynamite.
Adjusted to the average cost of abortions, Spring Break actually costs about $650 less than it appears on your daughter’s credit card bill.
When I was fifteen years old, a boy in my town jacked off a horse for five cigarettes. Where that horse got five cigarettes from, we’ll never know.
Any rapper worth his salt will tell you that Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy. But I reckon it’s a lot less easy to be a prostitute.
You know once in a while you’ll scroll down to a Youtube comment and see one that says ‘Say what you want about Hitler but he did kill Hitler.’ Then you see that the last response in that thread says ‘Another Jewish conspiracy debunked. Thank JESUS!’ And you want to see how that discussion spiraled. But then you see that there are 64 collapsed comments to read through between point A and B, and say *** it and just masturbate again. That's how unambitious you truly are.
I hate it when people say that some guy lost his battle with cancer. It implies that the last thing he ever did in life was failing at something.
That being said, it'd be nice if actual wars were battled like cancer. A field of people laying in beds with IV drips, watching shit TV and eating Jello.
Buying a dog to protect your valuables doesn’t work if the most valuable thing you own is a meat shop.
They say that homophobes are homophobes because they’re suppressing homoerotic desires. But you’d never say that about arachnophobes – Hey, this guy only hates spiders because he’s hiding a latent desire to crawl around bathtubs and make people mildly unsettled.
In conclusion, Kesha’s Rainbow is the star’s triumphant return into pop mediocrity. Really it’s uncanny, like she hasn’t lost a step. Listening to Rainbow is like intensely staring into the eye of a drunk duck. I think we all know what I mean by that.
