Relive Shawn Kemp's Glory Days with NBA Jam T.E.

In the year 2006, when this article was printed, Super Nintendo game reviewer was ranked the third-least profitable profession in America, ahead of only punchlines one* and two.** I dabbled in the field, but ultimately decided against it since the market was saturated with men-boys who survive on the Pop-tart diet. Super Nintendo reviewers are in less demand than a lesbian bar in Smurfsville.

College provides an outlet and an audience for a variety of obscurities; just ask a philosophy major who once raised his hand in a pit class and spouted off a criticism of the logic behind the Greatest Happiness Principle, years before getting a tattoo that reads, "Where did I go wrong?" (Philosophical Debator is actually #4 on the aforementioned list.)

When I'm dead, they should feel free to stuff a few of the stupid ones*** into the coffin with me.


When my colleagues at the newspaper asked me to write a retro video game review, I had but two questions: "Hell yes, I’ll do it," and, "Does anyone even read those?"

Great sports games usually have more replay value than their action/adventure counterparts. With all due respect to "Metroid" and "Contra," they’re just not as enchanting the second time through. Sports games are also more conducive to two-player showdowns, assuming you have a friend or a drunk uncle to play with, of course.

"NBA Jam Tournament Edition" is easily the most enjoyable basketball title for the Super Nintendo console. Playability for basketball games is often hampered by a clutter of 10 players swarming around in a half-court set. It can get pretty messy. The original "NBA Jam" stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. The results were amazing.

"NBA Jam" paired the simplistic team setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s "Arch Rivals" with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The pacing is rapid and never slowed down by tedious foul shots. Game-play basically boils down to passes, dunks, three-pointers, shoves and blocks. Simplicity is beautiful. The sequel surpasses the original. ACT test analogy: "A New Hope" is to "The Empire Strikes Back" as "NBA Jam" is to "NBA Jam Tournament Edition."

The biggest difference is the addition of a third bench player for each team. Stockton and Malone are joined by another white guy. Kemp and Payton are joined by a European stiff. There is one more player on the Milwaukee Bucks that you vaguely remember. A third player is essential because of another new feature: injury ratings. Gone are the days when your character can be shoved around like a scummy kid at a Misfits show without consequence. In "Tournament Edition," your character’s speed and shot-accuracy deteriorate if he has endured too much physical punishment. After a quarter’s-worth of rest, however, they return totally revitalized…just like in real life.

Player attributes are more extensive as well. Each player is rated on a scale of zero-to-nine for eight different categories. Each player has idiosyncratic and distinct strengths and weaknesses. Reggie Miller can hit the three like no other, but on the other hand, I could probably beat him in a fight. Cliff Robinson can crash the boards and throw noggin-rattling elbows, but in clutch situations, he’s about as reliable as a broken alarm clock. Spud Webb can dunk from two time zones away…and that’s pretty much it.

The settings of "T.E." are malleable and liberating. The player can choose from five levels of both difficulty and game speed. In addition, the sequel features optional "hot-spots" and "power-ups." Hot-spots are starred numbers that randomly materialize then quickly vanish on the court. Hitting a shot from that location can be worth as much as (brace yourself, dude) NINE points. Collecting a power-up boosts a specific attribute to a Game Genie-type level. When an uncoordinated monstrosity such as Shawn Bradley stumbles across a three-pointer power-up, he virtually transforms into Larry Bird beyond the arc. From a purist’s perspective, hot-spots and power-ups are decadent and downright unnecessary. They jeopardize the sanctity of "T.E.," and I never turn them on. They lend the game an awful "Dragonball-Z" feeling. Thankfully, "T.E.’s" glaring gimmicks are excluded from the tournament quest.

One-player mode is driven by the challenge of defeating all 29 NBA teams. The gamer first faces futile teams such as the pre-Kevin Garnett T-Wolves and progressively works up to worthy foes such as the Sonics and Knicks. A few of the premier teams from this era are missing their best player. The battles down the home stretch are slightly anti-climactic due to the absence of Shaq Fu, Sir Charles, and #23. All three were peddling games one-tenth the quality of "T.E." at the time. Their absence is conspicuous and disappointing, but hell, I’m not going to cry about it…anymore.

Once you’ve stomped every team in the Association, the real challenge begins. The computer drones become increasingly tenacious, wily, and resilient to shoves. Marquee players are paired with secret characters such as the pony-tailed geeks that created the game. Make no mistake: these vainglorious dweebs are sensational ballers. There’s nothing more humiliating than having your lay-up swatted by a "Trekkie" with a Dream Theater tattoo on his pasty bicep. And I feel morally-conflicted whenever my character connects a vicious elbow shot to the jaw of Mike D. from the Beastie Boys. Likewise, the Beasties’ b-ball skills are slightly embellished.

For two-player showdowns, "Tournament Edition" is incredible. Games last no longer than 15 minutes, the frenzy never relents and last-second buzzer-beaters are a common occurrence. (About a month ago, Tyler Maas stuck a dagger in my heart when he swished the winning three-pointer as time expired. I fell out of my chair, spilled my Miller Lite and cursed the cruel fatalism of the video game gods. Not a pretty sight.) Two-player cooperation is another option, and it makes one wonder why Nintendo 64 half-assed their take on the "NBA Jam" series. A worthwhile 4-player game of "Jam 64" would have brought a smile to my face back in 1997. Alas.

Out of a possible 69, "NBA Jam: Tournament Edition" earns 65 fist pumps. (My rating system is very popular with ninth-grade boys.) Stores such as Game Crazy sell retro games and consoles for cheap prices. If you’re a fan of fast-paced, simplistic sports titles, do yourself a frickin’ favor and purchase this masterpiece.


Indeed.

What does the future hold for reviewers of video games that keep fading deeper into the past? Perhaps Super Nintendo Reviewer will once again become a legitamite career, due to something whimsical like the popularity of VH1's forthcoming "I Love Nostalgia: 1994, part 9." Or maybe people will instead realize that watching VH1 is a colossal waste of time. My prediction? Never bet against VH1, America.

And even if I'm wrong, I could still fit in the occasional Super Nintendo review for charity. Imagine the smile on the face of a terminally ill seven-year-old when I tell him what I think about Donkey Kong Country.****

* Fanny-Pack Merchant
** Rec. League Hacky Sack Referee
*** Like this one, for instance.
****I think it's awesome.

Hair Down There

I’ve noticed that the popularity of the first name Harry has plummeted the last few decades. I’m 24 and I can’t recall ever meeting a man named Harry in my age group. The reason being that Harry is a blatant lightning rod for ridicule these days, especially when paired with a cheeky last name such as Butts, Johnson, or McVagina.

Past generations had no qualms with the Harry/ hairy association because less fuss was made about excessive body hair decades ago. Allow me to prove a point using the great American reference point of celebrities. Burt Reynolds was an icon of masculine virility in the 1970s, and behind his black mane of chest hair, we can only assume that he had nipples. Sexy, sexy man nipples. In the 2000s, however, chest hair has become the subject of comedic high jinx, as depicted in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," starring Steve Carrel, who is average-looking and far too funny to be considered a sex symbol. Who is this era’s icon of masculine virility? The chest-waxing, jogging topless on the beach grinning widely because he’s stoned out of his mind Matthew McConaughey, of course.

I’d love to see a movie based on the premise of ‘70s Burt Reynolds trading places with modern day Matthew McConaughey. (Like most great ideas, time machines factor into this one.) Transposed in the other’s niche, Burt would strike out with the ladies at P. Diddy’s pre-Super Bowl pool party, his penis crestfallen, perplexed by the recurrence of the insult, "Nasty Sasquatch."

Modern day McConaughey would strut around Studio 54...

***

For more information on pubes, order a copy of my book.

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REASON TO GRIPE

May 2008 is a time for gripes. Economic-stimulus checks from the U.S. government are not enough to quell the public’s gripes about the price of gasoline, which, I am sure you have noticed, is extremely fucking steep. Even the recent lottery winners who purchased a ticket at Ma & Pa’s on the Miracle Mile bitch about how much it costs to replenish their Bentleys when they make pit-stops there. The American breed craves independent transportation in fast machines. We are resentful of this crisis, wondering how steep the ceiling will climb.

I have little interest in the price of gasoline because I don’t own a car. My mind wonders how steep a different ceiling will climb: my medical bills. I can’t seem to avoid hospitals for a prolonged period of time. The day I was diagnosed with O.C.D. at the age of 15, my hand was stamped in permanent red marker to allow me convenient access back into the hospital for future visits. I was introduced to the entire staff at the hospital so that I could be on a first-name basis with not just the doctors and nurses but also the receptionists, gift shop cashiers, and janitors. Christ, I still owe Janitor Phil a Secret Santa present from last Christmas. And he won’t shut up about it!

My latest medical misfortune is a broken jaw. Legally, I am discouraged from communicating in complete sentences on the matter...Heart in right place, me try stop fight. Violence bad. Extra-blended mashed potatoes yummy.

That’s a load off!

I mention my run-in with Misters Innocent until Proven Guilty 1 and 2 only to reference the influx of gripes we are experiencing personally and globally. Griping in itself resolves very little, but I have always found comedic griping to be a source of redemption. Petty redemption perhaps, but I take what I can get from this stupefying world. Griping landed me a job writing comedy for the Advance-Titan at UW-Oshkosh. Before I joined the staff, I used to send a few e-mails per week to the Gripe Line. The Gripe Line lent a voice to the students whose hangover recovery was curtailed by the poseur metal-heads from the sixth floor of their dorm who blared the song “Headstrong” every weekday at 7 a.m. And so forth. If you could express concise agitation in a comical fashion, the Gripe Line was your outlet.

I have assembled here my favorite gripes from this era, all of which were printed anonymously alongside of complaints about people who ritualistically celebrate the song “Headstrong” by (gulp) Trapt.

Enjoy these gripes while I think up some original comedy that doesn’t involve me getting punched in the face.

1.) If life is really all just a dream, think of how many times you’ve unknowingly pissed the bed.
2.) The person who coined the phrase “smooth as a baby’s bottom” sounds like a real perv to me.
3.) Remember when our grade school teachers told us we had to learn cursive because our high school teachers would forbid us from writing freehand? The fuckers lied to us.
4.) Phone sex is okay, but you haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tried Morse Code sex.
5.) If I had but one superhuman power, I’d want the ability to scratch my butt with my mind. ‘Cause let’s face it, we’ve all had that inopportune butt-itch at a wedding or funeral.
6.) The other day I saw a heavyset girl wearing a high school track sweatshirt. A bit puzzled, I said to her, “Shot-put, right?”
7.) People are pretty crazy, but have you ever seen a dog barking out the window at a leaf scuttling by? Dogs are fucking BONKERS!
8.) Dirt Devil? What kind of a name is that for a vacuum? They might as well call it the “Soil Satan.”
9.) Christmas Eve is the smartest time to rob the North Pole.
10.) Neighborhood Watch Programs are essential in deterring society’s most pussified criminals.
11.) If prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, how were the jobless men able to pay for sex? Think about it, Gripe Line.
12.) The Athlete’s Foot is the only store I can think of that is named after a fungus.
13.) I love seeing “Minimum Speed Limit” signs alongside of the highway. They might as well read, “Just don’t pussyfoot it, granny.”
14.) G.P.S. Navigation Systems are bullshit. There’s no way a plate of German Potato Salad is going to tell you how to get to your destination.
15.) I haven’t been invited to an orgy in months. Gripe Line, be honest, is it because of my love-handles?
16.) My pet snake is taking FOREVER to make his first move in Stratego. Hurry the heck up, Morpheus. Jeez!
17.) Rock-a-holic rain stick player psyched about starting a heavy metal quintet. Influences include: Dokken, Warrant, Jackyll, and the Weather Channel’s “Storm Stories.” Stryper fans need not apply. Auditions are Friday in basement of Reeve building. Musicians are encouraged to bring me a sandwich.
18.) I sent a fan letter to Xzibit begging him to pimp my moped, but he never wrote back. Fuck him, and fuck my hopelessly un-pimped Razz ’97.
19.) Damnb thewse styubby7 fringers ofd mi9ne! (Get it?)
20.) The future would be less terrifying if our pubic hair fell out as we got older rather than turned gray.

Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue

To the canine beast that bit me last night: I am going to sue you, Drooly. You crossed the line, mutt, and you will be held accountable for your misdeed. I spoke with my attorney (the esteemed Len Finklin) and he shares my sense of outrage, for $200 an hour. We’ll see you in court.

What’s that you say? Woof, woof, WOOF? Ha, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your primitive beast language. Like any non-terrorist, I speak the tongue of Lady Liberty. All I’m hearing right now is guttural gibberish. You can object all you want, but I refuse to repeal my lawsuit. Oh, and now you’re playing the old "Crotch-Lick Card," eh? You’re pathetic.

Did you really think you would get away with it? You’re even dumber than you look, which is saying a lot considering you lack the cognitive capacity to see colors. But after what you did to me, you don’t DESERVE to see colors.

I don’t have a perfect recollection of your attack, but my identical twin Terry informed me of the facts. In my festive mindset, I playfully wrestled with you. And yes, I did apply a painful (to sissies) submission move: the figure-four leg lock, popularized by "The Nature Boy" Rick Flair. But I had the decency to break the hold once your cowardly yelping began to drown out the thunderous pop of Def Leppard on the stereo. And how did you repay my act of mercy? By biting my right buttock and making my hiney gush blood. You son-of-a-bitch—and I mean that as an insult, not as an obvious acknowledgement that you’re a male and mother dogs such as your own are termed "bitches" in Webster’s dictionary.

My attorney Len Finklin has informed me that our dispute has garnered the attention of P.E.T.A. At the risk of overloading lame puns: those traders of humanity are barking up the wrong tree. We’ll bury them like one of your precious bones. You consented to that figure-four leg lock; the proof is on tape. Prior to twisting your hind legs into a "4" shape, I had the decency to tell you to bark seven times if you objected to a wrestling match. And you did not. You barked EIGHT times.

What’s more, you were ordered to tap your paw repeatedly on the carpet if the pain became too much to endure. Unlike me, you were not victimized, Drooly. No, you willingly participated in some playful roughhousing—playful, at least, UNTIL YOU BIT MY ASS! That was a bit of a buzz kill, let me tell you. I was awakened the next morning by the searing sting of hydrogen peroxide being poured on my right buttock. Terry then showed me the tape to jog my memory of the incident. (Sure, I had shot-gunned my fair share that night, but I wouldn’t use the words "blacked-out.") What I saw will someday soon chill the jury to the core of their souls. In mid-celebration dance (a number I refer to as the "Pelvic Earthquake"), you took a cheap chomp at my backside and metaphorically peed on my fantastic buzz with your inferior dog pee.

True, there is little precedent for lawsuits such as mine. In cases of dog attacks, the human owner unjustly receives the brunt of the charges. This tendency is an outright rejection of the self-deterministic values that helped found this great nation of ours. There is no denying it, Drooly: dog or not dog, you are responsible for your actions. If you dogs want to eat man’s table scraps and slumber on man’s couches, you better abide by man’s code of justice, too. The doggy door swings both ways, mutt. My grievance is not with your owner and I have no intentions of suing him. Only a complete fool would sue himself.

As a longtime pet-owner, I am fed up with the brash outbursts of the creatures I have granted a home to. For instance, Puzzwhether, the potbelly pig I used to own, once vomited all over my brand new sneakers, all because he couldn’t hold his liquor down. I wasted $120 because that smelly swine has a low tolerance for whiskey. That incident was infuriating, but it pales in comparison to your bloodthirsty rampage, Drooly.

The jury will almost certainly rule in my favor, and in the wake of their noble verdict, you will be ordered to pay restitutions. Now, I am by no means delusional enough to expect you to enter the human work force in order to earn money to pay for my physical and psychological torment. Although your PETA sympathizers might disagree, there is no place for dogs in the human workplace. As penance for savaging my right buttock with your teeth, you will be tethered to the lever of a red wagon and forced to pull me to all my various destinations. For three solid years, whether I require transport from the couch to the bathroom or from my kiddie pool to a back alley cock fight across town, you will act as my flea-ridden chauffeur. During our voyages, I will also harass you with taunts from a megaphone. If this punishment seems harsh, you should consider the retribution my twin brother Terry had in mind. Simmering with rage, he initially suggested we put you to sleep. "Put you to sleep" is a nice way of saying he wanted to suplex you off the top of a parking garage. You’re lucky I’m more merciful than my equally-handsome
counterpart, Drooly.

And how do you show appreciation for my lenient gesture? By getting fed-up with what you might consider a "nonsensical tirade" that is approaching 1,000 words and lunging for my throat with your salivating fangs? Well scoff, I guess that’s gratitude. If I survive this mauling, you can bet the jury is going to hear about this, too.

(Editor’s note: Dogs can’t read, Captain Silly-Pants.)

Musicals and Superhero Flicks, Fighting in Harmony

On a frigid night in January I watched a musical on DVD called "Across the Universe." Before watching this musical, I was under the impression that "Across the Universe" was a Beatles documentary because I was barely listening when a friend offered a brief description of the movie. Impaired by ignorance and blind optimism, I couldn't prepare for the cheap sensory damage that was to come.

The first sign that flamboyantly bad entertainment awaited came when I spotted the DVD case lying on the carpet of my friend's house. The cover displayed two young lovers about to kiss, framed inside a heart. It was the type of cover you'd expect to see on a Danielle Steele paperback for sale at the grocery store. I gulped morosely and contemplated escape. I decided to stay because leaving would have meant a long walk home in the bitter cold, and beyond that, people with no tolerance for slight suffering might as well give up now.

And so I watched it, I saw the whole damn thing, and here are my thoughts. Rock and roll loses its charisma when it is adapted into musical form. It's wrong to emasculate a song generated by machismo just as it would be wrong for Henry Rollins to release an album of Bjork covers. (And let's hope Henry never does.) They released almost ten great albums, and the two survivors probably had nothing to do with the the musical other than accepting a PGA-golf-outing-sized check, so I'd be a total Judas bastard to denounce the Beatles. But even so, "Across the Universe" made me resent the Beatles' boundless popularity and accessibility.

My criticism is biased, though, because I don't like any musicals. Every minute of a musical is five minutes in real time. "Grease" is the highest-grossing twelve-hour movie of all time. I could go from clean-shaven to a Unabomber beard in the time it takes to finish "The Sound of Music."

***

Like it so far? 'Cause you haven't read the entire thing. Please order a copy of my book. It's called "There Will be Blog."

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Cubs Fan Wants to Waste Time Travel

CUBS FAN WANTS TO WASTE TIME TRAVEL

I like to wear a blue hat with a red "C" printed on it. The "C" represents my affinity for the Chicago Cubs baseball squadron. Because of the team’s 99-year championship drought and knack for faltering in the presence of greatness, many people who follow sports consider Cubs fans pathetic and masochistic. But I don’t see it that way. I prefer to think we are dauntless optimists who never lose hope but occassionally lose self-respect. Being a Cubs fan has taught me that hope can’t be killed by oodles upon oodles of disappointment, frustration, and failure. Thanks to a revolving cast of jocks that wear matching hats and uniforms, I have learned a lot about hope. Hope is like a cockroach in the nuclear winter.

Of course, this column wouldn’t be very funny if I didn’t segue into the disappointment/ frustration/ failure realm of loving the Cubs. My darkest day as a Cubs fan should come as no surprise: October 14th, 2003. On this date, the Cubs squandered a three-run lead in the eighth inning and wound up losing game six of the National League Championship Series to the Florida Marlins. A few days later, the Marlins eliminated the Cubs in game seven and went on to win the World Series. A crucial play in this dreadful eighth inning occurred when Marlin Luis Castillo sliced a foul ball toward the left field stands—right in the area of seat 113 in aisle 4, row 8. The fan who claimed seat 113—a bespectacled geek named Steve Bartman— lunged for the airborne souvenir, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that Cubs leftfielder Moises Alou was tracking the ball, poised to make the catch. Alou didn’t catch the ball, however, because Bartman knocked it down. Thus began a gut-wrenching plummet down an emotional black-hole. Thanks a lot, Bartman. I mean...What the fuck?!

I realize there were many other factors in that eighth inning debacle (including but not limited to starter Mark Prior’s abrupt loss of composure, Alex Gonzalez’s error at shortstop, the relievers floated the ball to the plate in under-handed, softball fashion), but for the sake of this column, let’s just assume a fan with busy hands deserves 100% of the blame. Steve Bartman could discover the cure for cancer and he still wouldn’t redeem himself. Don’t get me wrong: I hate cancer as much as the next guy. I’m anti-cancer all the way, but on the other hand, I can’t overlook the fact that Steve Bartman sucks as a person.

I have a request for any scientists that are reading this column: Invent a time machine. I’ve never asked you for anything before; PLEASE scientists, invent a time machine so that I can travel back to October 14th 2003 and restrain Steve Bartman in a full-nelson hold for a mere three seconds while that infamous foul ball is in flight. I want to go "Quantum Leap" on that chump!

Some of you may be wondering, "Aren’t there more important historical events to rectify through time travel? Genuinely tragic events that we could set straight if only the damn scientists would get off their duffs and invent a damn time machine?" It’s an interesting argument that I’m willing to counter. So with no further ado, here is a brief list of some other catastrophes that do not, in my opinion, merit time travel intervention.

***

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I'm OK, K107 Is Not Okay

College for me was followed by an interim period, the time between learning a trade and plunging into an official, unavoidable career. I'm still living in the interim period as I write this. It has been a relatively peaceful time.

I'm looking forward to the end of the interim period, in part because of the radio, specifically K-107 FM in Fond du Lac. I'm not self-employed, as a writer or otherwise, and as a consequence I have very limited control over the selection of music I listen to for about nine hours every workday. It is somewhat taboo to play a CD where I work, at Meixensperger Painting and Decorating. It pays most of the endless bills, puts pizza and Lean Cuisines on the TV tray, and leaves me comfortably dissatisfied.

The bizarre thing is that most of my daily tasks involve wood in some capacity--sanding, filling holes, painting--and back in ninth grade, Wood Shop (or Technical Education as it was euphemized) was a daily burden. My grades were subpar and I hated the class. Wood Shop was the thoughtless introduction to the morning blur, still half-asleep, ears getting harrassed by the hellacious SCREEEAAACH of buzz-saws gnarling into solid oak.

All students were required to wear cheap safety glasses with narrow black rectangular rims. They were similar to Buddy Holly's eye-wear, especially when you're a skinny, pubescent young man with braces. It was not a good look for me; looking into the mirror wearing those Buddy Holly glasses felt like a cruel joke. "That can't be me staring back...my God, it is."

As it turns out, wood isn't so bad. Those hellaciously screaching buzz saws were the source of the problem. Sanding, filling holes, and painting, while repetitive, are tasks that are conducive to the daydreamer's mind. Once your hands are experienced enough to perform using their own memory, very little conscious thought is required and one can set their mind to ideas on music, sports, women, reading, or writing. Assuming you're only planning to do it for nine or ten months of your lifetime, being a painter isn't so bad.

The closest thing to a buzz-saw I have to contend with on a daily basis is the radio. To me, the music played on mainstream radio stations is buzz-saw-lite. Mainstream radio music is slightly more melodic, more merciful than buzz-saws, but whenever I hear "Big Girls Don't Cry" or "Delilah" for the third time in a nine-hour span, I think of that old familiar buzz-saw SCREEEAAACH as a suitable alternative.

At Meixensperger Headquarters, which is referred to simply as The Shop, a common task involves spraying dozens and dozens of boards set on barrels. The boards are then transfered, usually by me, to a metallic rack with dozens of horizontal rungs. This process lasts for about an hour at a time. Ted Meixensperger, 28-year-old son of Jeff, the boss, usually does the spraying. Sometimes Jeff serves as the primary sprayer, whenever he deems that Ted and I need to "Kick it in the ass." Jeff is in his mid-50s and he might be the most inexaustible worker I've ever met.

Spraying dozens and dozens of boards inside a fume-hazy room with a cardboard floor is a manly job. Jabberjawing and ball-breaking and lethal farts are constant. At least once a week I hear the following conversation: "Hey, you missed a spot. What, do you need to get your eyes checked?" "What are you talking about? I didn't miss a spot. Maybe YOU need to get your eyes checked." Then somebody farts to prove there are no hard feelings. It's manly work, and you might expect us to listen to bands such as Led Zeppelin or Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers or at the very least stupid fucking Van Halen while we do it. But this isn't the case. While we're hard at work, jabberjawing and all that, we're usually listening to an effeminate song on K-107 FM. It's an embarrassing contradiction, and I'm the only one who takes notice. Aside from modern-day crappy rock like Nickelback, we listen to some of the most pussified music available.

Radio stations such as K-107 are not hazardous only because of the bad music and ham-fisted local advertisements. These radio stations are an infringement on our free will. Nobody at the Shop likes hearing Pink segue into Fergie, we're just resigned to it, as if it's not an option to bring in a copy of Led Zeppelin I through IV. It is, God-dammit, but everyday we end up listening to non-objectionable soft rock.

The situation is so depressing. The good news is that I write to alleviate the depressive tendencies of the problems my mind embellishes. Pay-checks be damned, I am not a painter and I am not resigned.

What follows, then, is a wolfish reply to the singers and bands that make mainstream radio seem slightly more appealing than a hellaciously screaching buzz-saw.

The Singers...

Kenny Chesney: "Don't Blink," because the temporary lapse of vision won't save your ear-drums from being violated by Kenny's patented D-Bag nostalgia. This song includes a total of 25 cliches about the bittersweet nature of aging. Country garbage is being played more and more on mainstream radio, and I don't like it one bit.

Fergie: My biggest qualm with certain female vocalists is when they perform ballads that are fueled by an ERUPTION of estrogen. When you see a diva perform these types of ballads, the vains in their neck protrude grotesquely and one hand covers their sternum to keep their hearts from breaking. The experience is ugly, comically dramatic, and uncomfortable.

Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" is a fitting example. Fergie wants us all to know how vulnerable she is feeling, and it's really terrifying. "Big Girls Don't Cry" is scarier than "The Exorcist" and stretch-marks combined times a thousand.

Women who passionately relate to this song on an emotional level are quickly rising on my list of people I don't want to associate with.

Alecia Keys: Her latest hit, "No One," features some cool synth-effects and a voluminous sound. Enjoyment of this song is, however, made impossible by Alecia's vocals (eruption of estrogen) and her lyrics. In the song, Alecia is trying to console a loved one by promising them that, "EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT!" At the risk of sounding pessimistic, everything is not going to be all right, and I'm exhausted by delusional sentimentalists who convey these exact words in their music. Everything has never been, is not, will never be all right because problems, sorrow, and anger are permanent qualities of the human experience. If you have a loved one who cries every time it rains, don't promise them it's never ever going to rain again because when it does rain you're going to feel like a lying piece of shit.

"Let It Be" is fitting advice to a down-and-out loved one. The next time Alecia wants to cheer up a family member, I really hope she refrains from writing her own song, wises up and pays Michael Jackson a shit-load of money for the rights to "Let It Be."

Pink: You can't present yourself as a sneering pop-outlaw AND receive three hours of airtime on mainstream radio for eight months at a stretch without being a hypocrite. Pink is not a pop-outlaw. She isn't rebelling against the mainstream because the mainstream has made her rich, filthy rich.

"Who Knew?" just sounds like a hostile bitch covering a song written for Kelly Clarkson. Oddly enough, Kelly Clarkson will be spared in this rant because, although I don't like her music, I have a strong hunch her soul is a thing of beauty. Who knew?

Billy Ray Cyrus and His Fortune-Making Daughter Hannah Montana: Billy Ray's career hit a lull following the "Achey Breaky Heart" hysteria of the early-90s. The song's pulse thrived like the triumphant blood of anyone trendy enough to dance away the last fifteen minutes of the Fanny-Pack explosion. The hysteria lasted for damn near two years. Billy Ray appeared to be invincible.

The only snag in the man's mullet was his inability to write and record a second popular song. His career cooled off as he flirted with Mistress Obscurity, played some state fairs, and didn't get a few dozen important phone calls returned.

But the man had an Ace up his sleeve, or rather a Queen: his daughter Hannah (Cha-Ching!) Montana. Here is a time-line biography of Billy Ray Cyrus, beginning with the year "Achy Breaky Heart" topped the charts.

1991: "Achy Breaky Heart" fills the void left by the phasing out of "The Safety Dance." "Line-dancing" beacme much more than a slang term used by boogying coke-heads, Billy Ray beat Stanley Cup champion Mario Lamieux in a mullet contest, and "Achy Breaky Heart" held strong at Number One throughout most of the vastly under-rated 21st season of "Hee-Haw."

1992: Still coasting on the success, and why the hell not? Common quote from Billy Ray during this era: "I want me some Mellow Yellow 'n' Jaegermeister stocked in the fridge at ev'ry show, plus some babes what got big hoots, up real close to the stage."

1993: Vacation time. Buys an island somewhere in the Carribean, later on loses the island in a high-stakes poker game. Still bitter about that poker game.

1994: Daughter Hannah Montana born. Jackpot status yet to be determined. Much to Billy Ray's disappointment, infant Hannah's rendition of "America, the Beautiful" is deemed "unprofitable-sounding" by his record company.

1995: Celebrity judge at the Kentucky State Fair's 42nd Annual Pie-Eat.

1996-1998: Records and then scraps several versions of his ill-fated concept album: "There's No House Like Roadhouse," a musical re-imagining of the Patrick Swayze film "Roadhouse." The album's woeful sales prompted BRC to sell off his two favorite monster trucks.

1999: Receives an honorable mention for performance at the Kentucky State Fair's 46th Annual Pie-Eat. Not content with a mere honorable mention, Billy Ray gets into a shouting match with celebrity judge Larry Flint. Billy Ray accuses Flint of crooked judgement, threatens to slash the tires on Flint's wheelchair, and tells the porn mogle he hopes a hurricane destroys his precious island in the Carribean.

2000: Soul-crushing year begins on a dreary note as the Apocalypse did not happen as some had foretold.

2001: Sues several "no-nothin'" televangelists who failed to deliver on promise of Y2K Armageddon. Billy Ray loses the case. On the bright side, he remembered to feed his daughter on a regular basis.

2002: Entertains a crowd of dozens outside of the 49th Annual Kentucky State Fair. He is upstaged by his opening act: daughter Hannah Montana singing medley of popular Disney songs. Billy Ray's eyeballs literally turned into dollar signs for the duration of the year.

2003-2005: Works tirelessly 60 hours per week to make sure his daughter works 50 hours a week singing at shopping malls and filthy rich nursing homes.

2006-present: Return to glory. Ready, set, don't call it a comeback! I would suggest that God is to Jesus as Billy Ray is to Hannah Montana if only it wasn't blasphemous to compare Jesus to a little girl.

It's worth mentioning that, although the song is irritating and irredeemable, Hannah's powerhouse vocals are impressive. She puts her daddy on her supple back and plows onward past screaming pre-teens toward an RV stuffed with One-Hundred Dollar Bills.

The Bands...

Nickelback: Every song they've recorded has been inside of a large bathroom. In addition to producing great accoustics, the bathroom setting allows lead singer Chad Kroeger to squat on the toilet during his vocal recordings. Most of the fart noises are edited out of the final versions.

The Kroeger also has a popular duet with Carlos Santana, who on numerous occassions has been paid excessively to whack-off with his six-string in support of younger rock stars. Carlos' talent has been spoiled for awhile now, he primarily whacks off with his six-string for pop losers, and in the after-life he deserves to clean the vomit from the clouds Jimi Hendrix threw-up on in heaven.

Plain White T's: Their corny ballad "Delilah" set back masculinity and the accoustic guitar twenty and five years, respectively. The lead singer needs to stop taking pills to boost his estrogen level.

The words, dedicated to an Olympic gymnast the singer met once, represent a stalker's masturbation session and not a heartfelt phantom encounter with your girlfriend. And stalking is not romantic. Don't be suckered by this type of bullshit, ladies. Sexist aggression is no good, but neither is being an unabashed advocate of Pussy-dom.

Bon Jovi: It's difficult for me to limit my distaste for Bon Jovi to fewer than 200 words once I get going like this, but I will try. Starting...Now!

Bon Jovi's latest hit, "Lost Highway," opens with a line that blatantly plagiarizes Pearl Jam's 1993 single "Rearviewmirror." That's lame and unoriginal. "Crush," a BJ chart-topper from 2000, also includes mention of a highway ("My heart is like an open highway"), and the words that follow are, "Like Frank (Sinatra) said: 'I did it my way.'" Jon Bon openly admits to swiping somebody else's lyrics in that song, and I wish he'd get back into the habit. He is a handsome man with average musical ability who has no reason to believe originality is profitable.

Bon Jovi was recently inducted into the Songwriter Hall of Fame, an organization I didn't know existed until I heard the news about Bon Jovi on K-107. That's when I lost all respect for the Songwriting Hall of Fame's voting commitee. Just as a garbage can stacked with used syringes does not belong in Cooperstown, Bon Jovi does not belong in the Songwriting Hall of Fame.

As my wayward friend Kodke once stated, "Leave me out of the Bon Jovi demographic." It is with immense pride that I plagiarize his thoughts on Bon Jovi.

OneRepublic: Listen dudes, "It's too late to apologize" for raping my eardrums with your drivel-gushing ballad. The guest vocalist on this shit-ballad is Timbaland, who can be heard on the chorus grunting, "Huh-huh!" The song's hook goes something like this: "It's too late to apologize...It's to laaattteee! (Huh-huh!) It's too late to apologize..." A vain male model whines and strokes his damaged ego, and then his retarded cousin moans in his sleep. Evidently, that's a possible formula for writing a song so popular it is inescapable.

Lifehouse: All you need to know about Lifehouse is that they are arguably less necessary than Hubastank.

Conclusion...

When the band Autograph encouraged us to "Turn Up the Radio" back in 1984, they had no idea the radio would become infested with bands that are half as talented as Autogrpah. In essence, the quality of the local pop station has deteriorated every year, going back at least to the era I was born in. If this downslide continues, in 50 years Jon Bon's son Ron Bon will probably be a radio DJ at a station that exclusively plays his dad's hit singles in between interviews with an old, pregnant Hannah Montana. In which case, I say bring on Gore's version of the End of Days: Global Warming.