More Lyrics to "Bad Cops"

It feels peculiar for someone like me to ask you to watch something rather than read it, but here goes. Watch this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoCOXYiYM8g


Funny! But I'm dying to hear some additional verses. I'm left with a desire to add lyrics to “Bad Cops.” When I was in college I wrote a script for The Simpsons, which I revised a few months ago, and it is worth mentioning that I won't be getting paid for the lines that follow, either. I have yet to develop into much of a capitalist.

In the meantime, read this.

Bad Cops, Bad Cops...

Springfield cops are on the take
But what do you expect for the money we make?
Whether in a car or on a horse
We don't mind using excessive force

Bad Cops, Bad Cops...

We crack skulls and call it the norm
Chocolate is a stain on our uniforms
We're the worst cops a con could want at the scene
Wiggum caught his tie in a hot-dog machine

Bad Cops, Bad Cops...

Nevermind those shots at the Kwik-e-Mart
Better things to do once McGarnicle starts
Night-sticks club and tasers tase
Birthday boys hold their guns sideways

Bad Cops, Bad Cops...

Officers respond when we're damn good and ready
Carl is to Lenny as Lou is to Eddie
Fear ghost cars and gamble on squirrels
Fail to straighten out: Snake's red curls

Bad Cops, Bad Cops...

Guitar solo

Funky strummin' for awhile

A bunch of rap samples of handgun-fire solo

More funky strummin'

Bad Cops, Bad Cops

Just a few more gunshot noises, but—you know...tasteful ones.

Conclusion

                                                                       ^McGarnicle^

Fear of Motorcycles

1. When I met Antoinette outside of the apartment we'd soon be sharing, she had her arms wrapped around a man on a motorcycle. Wisps of gray mingled in his dark and dense hairline and he nodded to me with the undertones of both a protective dad and a leery lover. Antoinette dismounted the bike and said hello. He looked immune to digs about sporting a Fonz-jacket through a midlife crisis as he sped away.

Antoinette showed me around her two-bedroom place. I basked in the absence of both luxury and total squalor that made it an affordable and habitable residence in Chicago. When I moved in a week later, Antoinette greeted me in shorts that showcased her creamy thighs. Below one of those juicy thickets was a burn mark on her calf. She explained that it was inflicted when her calf graced the muffler on the motorcycle rode by the older man who employed her part-time as some sort of a personal assistant.

A week later, a portion of all my stuff had been loaded into the second bedroom.

I'd met a pretty girl with glasses whose parents lived in the wealthy suburbs north of Chicago. It was the Fourth of July and we watched the fireworks from a cozy bolder on the shoreline of Lake Michigan. I sat with my legs splayed and my arms wrapped around the girl who, I suppose, counts as the love of my life for now.

It was a short-lived period of time, I'm sad to say. The big city chaos was indifferent to my dreams, and I was unsure exactly how to pursue those dreams, anyway. By the end of July I was hungry and defeated. A portion of all my stuff was loaded into my brother's truck and we drove back to Wisconsin.

Before I shut the door on that apartment in Logan Square for the last time, I said goodbye to Antoinette. My focus drooped once from her solemn face to her creamy thighs and downward. Along the way, I noticed that the burn from the motorcycle still branded her calf, and it occurred to me that she, at least, didn't seem to regret a thing.

2.) More or less every cell in my body is annoyed by motorcycles. They are deafening death-wishes on wheels. Motorcycles roar for destruction, boast about the victory of recklessness over sanity, run amok all over peace and quiet, and flout common sense just for the hell of it. The iota of cop-DNA that I inherited from my dad boils at the thought of motorcycles and their banshee calls for endangerment, their celebration of the rude life.

Motorcycles are embodied by the egomaniacs at the party who holler but never listen. The oaf who requests more cleavage from the back row of a movie theater may very well ride a Harley. When he's not launching soda can projectiles from spinning band-saws in shop class, that guy you knew from high school daydreamed about popping wheelies... loud wheelies.

Now, these are stereotypes that don't apply to everyone who rides the shiny hog, but still, those machines are belligerent and dangerous, and I really, really hate the damn motorcycles.

A vicious feeling like disdain never exists in a vacuum, though. Motorcycles kick-start disdain in me, which in turn sparks fear and jealousy. Badness is really more of a mafia than a dictatorship.

There are three reasons why I'm not so crazy about motorcycles (and admittedly, those words are paradoxical since I tend to go crazy about the things I'm not crazy about), and they are as follows.

3.)“They're so loud I can hardly feel myself hate.”

More so than just about anything else, music makes me feel like less of a broken loon. When it comes to music, I gush, I polarize, I analyze. I'm eager to twist and shout at the behest of the Beatles. Convincing someone that the Clash were an infinitely better band than the Sex Pistols is something I'd like to do on a daily basis. I get my heart cut out in the most compassionate way conceivable when I hear Johnny Cash's rendition of U2's “One”--and all that artsy stuff I crake wise about.

The antithesis of great music is the racket a motorcycle makes. The musical counterpart of a motorcycle would have to be one of those death metal bands that are always pissed for reasons that cannot possibly be gleaned from the incomprehensible but psychotic-seeming lyrics. If you think melodies are for pussies and that it takes a bad-ass to leave a trail of heinous noise everywhere you go, get a motorcycle and download some shitty din played by freaks from Sweden, pal.

What the hell is so appealing about a vehicle that basically blares Tourettes Syndrome from a megaphone? Why are noisy machines so much more acceptable than noisy people? People cause motorcycles to make a God-awful ruckus, and that's every bit as inconsiderate as them hollering their lungs out as they wait in line at a convenience store.

“HURRR-RUUUUURRRGGG! HURRR-RUUUUURRRGGG! Hurry up with that cash-register, lady. HURRR-RUUUUURRRGGG! Come on, I don't have all day! HUR-RURG!”

On a regular basis, I'm willing to bet, a sleeping baby gets woken up by the roar of a motorcycle. That baby, terrified, starts crying at a decibel level that nearly matches that of the departing Harley. The father or mother then enters the bedroom to comfort the hysterical baby, offering coos and cuddles—and yet the baby can't find peace and fall back asleep for two hours, and the same goes for the parent(s). Having been deprived of a full night's rest, the father and/ or the mother go to work the next day feeling exhausted and cranky. Their patience is short with co-workers and customers. They lash out irritably at things they typically wouldn't be bothered by. They have themselves a bad day, and so will you, if you spend enough time with them.

All that unpleasantness happens because one asshole rides a motorcycle after dark.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Nick Turns 30, Rambles

My entry point on the grand timeline has always predated the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Challenger explosion, and Nintendo, but only recently has that made me feel old. In a stroke of folkie Zen, James Taylor once let us know, “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” Right on and amen and all that, but lost youth has a way of instilling heartache in even the wisest men and women, and so his adage is, like most, easier said (or sang) than the alternative.


Good God, I'm old enough to remember Joe Piscopo. And I don't especially want to remember Joe Piscopo, but his impression of Frank Sinatra on Saturday Night Live has been chiseled on the walls inside my skull, anyway. Had I known at age four or five that my mind was fertile for memories on that night, I probably would have done something more fun or constructive than watching Joe freaking Piscopo fail to amuse me. Maybe I could have drawn a picture of Bugs Bunny or worked on that model car construction kit my grandpa got me. Nope. I'm stuck with Joe Piscopo.

^Look, kids! It's an outdated reference. ^

It's more comical than guilt-inducing for me to consider better memories than the ones I have. But I feel guilty about other things when it's best to forgo the trip. The guilt so redolent at Catholic masses lingers like second-hand smoke. It's a funny religion, but it's designed to make you feel blasphemous when you laugh out loud about it. My family attended mass inside a church which showcased a pretty gruesome sculpture of Jesus suffering on the cross. Blood trickled down his temples and pegs stuck out of his extremities. I thought that was a bit glum and scary. Why not immortalize him as he prayed or healed someone or walked on water like Superman? I've never understood that. There has got to be a happy medium between the tortured Mel Gibson Jesus and the Buddy Christ Jesus from that Kevin Smith movie.

Religious dogma is kooky. The best explanation I've heard for how most of Adam and Eve's descendants lived to exceed the age of 500—as declared in the book of Genesis—came from my 7th grade Catechism teacher.

“Well, they ate a lot of fish back then.”

It's a wonder I still believe in God, but I do. Concerning existence, I believe that something happened instead of nothing due to intent, not accident. I believe in intangibles, and so do you, if you can acknowledge that love, hope, and ideas can't be seen under microscopes or quantified in beakers, either, but they're still vital parts of our lives. I reject the notion that the academic elite are the smartest force at work on this planet. Come on. Entities don't get any more intelligent than...PEOPLE?! Are you shitting me? Atheists think the human construct of logic is the answer to everything, and it isn't. They can draw up thorough and tidy philosophical proofs, but all those proofs are fallible. Nothing we do is perfect, and the same goes for all that we create (especially the ideology). The orbit of the planets around a star in a finely tuned solar system inside a galaxy that is but one of thousands dwelling inside a possibly infinite universe is a different story, though. And when you consider the precise design inate in the cardiovascular and digestive systems of every living thing we know of, well...I downright think atheism is foolish. Haughty, too.

So, for me, the trouble with spirituality is not God; it's the imperfect humans who haughtily believe they can reproduce God's message in a book or a religion designed by humans—which, no offense, is really just another word for fuck-ups.

Admittedly, I'm part of the fuck-up demographic. And how! Yikes. When I was a teenager I made a pact with myself late one night when I couldn't sleep. I forbade myself to find happiness until I became a successful writer and a devoted husband. If I couldn't do what I loved for a living and be with a woman I like and love everyday, I reasoned, this whole ride was going to be awfully cheap and disappointing.

I'm 0-for-2 on that front, and I really can't put into words what a loss that has meant to me so far. There are some melodramatic horror stories about my 20s that I'll have to spell out someday, regarding mental illness and medication and sex and all that juicy stuff, maybe in another book, when I'm ready, when I'm strong enough. It'd kill me to tell the worst of it until I'm comfortable detailing the whole mess. At the moment I just know I've underachieved and it's hard to not be angry about that.

As it is now, the thing I am perhaps most proud of is that I have never once worn a tie-dyed shirt. I'd much rather have the writing career and wife and bump the no-tie-dye triumph down to the bronze medal. 30 marks another decade, at least, and the race/ wrestling match/ pole vault competition/ (whichever bad analogy you prefer) isn't over yet.

The highlight of my 30th birthday occurred early in the evening, when my brother and his wife and two dear friends shared drinks while their kids frolicked on the dance floor. Inspired by the moxie of my friends' young daughter, I climbed up a fifteen foot pole, one that some thought belonged in a firehouse and others in a strip-club, and touched the rafters above. I did that three times that night, but on the first occasion, my nephew was beaming at me, his head tilted up, his smile stretching endlessly. I slid down and he greeted me like an astronaut returning from the moon. When I offered him a high-five, he was quick to oblige, and with conviction. The look of wonderment in his eyes was still fresh, and I hope and pray that he will never lose that. Throughout all the unhappiness and discouragement in much of my adult life, I forgot about how great it feels to let this life enthrall you. My nephew reminded me of that.

There are three lines I've written that could pass for my favorite. The first is: “When we lose control, we're still human, but when we lose faith, we turn into monsters.” Another is: “Sometimes love and hate come from the exact same place. Now ain't that a bitch?” But the one that I will cite in the interest of placing a bow on this disjointed little birthday gift is the one you'll read east of this colon: “We're in this together.” I said that to my baby nephew in “April Fool's Day.” It's not the most original line, I'll confess, but the feeling and the intent are there.

Thanks for reading. You! Sorry if you got to this point with only pained eyeballs to show for it.

How about a more confident conclusion? If you've got nothing but pained eyeballs by now, get a clue. I'm pretty good at this and I look forward to getting better and better.

^Honestly, I'm OK either way.^

Love,
Nick

R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs

This one was printed in my college's newspaper in March of 2006. I just did some very half-assed research and it surprised me to learn that R. Kelly continues to add chapters to his “hip-hopera.” Which suits me fine. My awareness of Trapped in the Closet peaked years ago, but apparently he's still expounding on some epic vision that I clearly don't take seriously.

If you're a devout fan of R. Kelly, my gripe is not with you, but you probably shouldn't read on. I will no doubt soon transform into tactless wise-ass mode. In my defense, here are two things to consider.



First, I'm writing this column on my birthday. At a certain age, birthdays lose their appeal; after 21, it gets harder to muster that childlike enthusiasm on the anniversary of your passage through your mom's vagina.


Fortunately, I have discovered a remedy for birthday disenchantment. For 24 hours, I try my damndest to reject common courtesies and forced pleasantries and permit myself to be obnoxious and rude. I play the bejesus out of the birthday card! If someone objects to my brash behavior by blathering lines such as, “Don't talk shit about my ailing grandma” or “Sir, we don't allow fireworks in this wing of the library,” my reply is always, “Hey, cut me some slack; it's my frickin' birthday.” It works more often than you might think.



The second reason I'm writing an unflattering column about R. Kelly is much simpler. Some people are jerks, and there isn't much hope they will ever change their ways. These people should be parodied, and parodies aren't always nice.

Unless you were part of the pop duo Milli Vanili, America is willing to give you a second chance. W. Bush blundered through a first term in office (and probably got accidentally trapped in a closet or two of his own) only to be dared by a high percentage of voters to do it again. Like W. Bush, R. Kelly has been granted a second chance.

A few years after his much publicized “sex” tape (and I put quotes around that word because sex takes on a twisted mutation when urine is combined with an underage girl), R. Kelly has bounced back with a popular show on VH1. Some will debate it was Kelly's doppelganger who appeared in the video, and in any case, whoever starred in it didn't get punished too severely; R. Kelly is not tormenting “fresh fish” alongside of Suge Knight. Rather, he's got a show called Trapped in the Closet.

I'll never forget my only viewing of Trapped. It was cheerfully introduced by a swarthy nitwit who applies two gallons of hair gel per day. He's the same guy who hosts Bands Reunited, which means he's the only person in the world that's hellbent on seeing one more concert put on by the original lineup of Mr. Big. There are people with faded Mr. Big tattoos who'd rather not see Mr. Big perform a reunion gig at some shopping mall in Tampa.

Anyway, here's a summary of the episode I caught: R. Kelly is “trapped in a tumultuous love triangle with a cop and a woman. R. and the woman are in her bedroom, arguing in a bizarrely musical fashion, and once the tension reaches a fever pitch, they realize the absurdity of their ordeal and burst into laughter. Fair enough, I suppose.

The cop then enters the house and overhears the commotion in the bedroom. In a jesting tone, the woman shouts, “Stop it, you're killing me!” The phrase in question implies that you want the other person to relent joking because you're laughing so hard your stomach hurts and farcically brings to mind the thought of death.

This cop is a total bonehead, though. He infers those words literally. He assumes the woman is in serious trouble and storms into the bedroom with his gun drawn. BANG! Someone gets shot. It doesn't matter who.

For the record, this is an idiotic plot-twist. When they're in the process of being murdered, NOBODY screams, “Stop it, you're killing me!” It just overstates the obvious, really. Actual murder victims scream things like, “Help!” or “Don't do this!” or “You'll pay for this, O.J.!”

Trapped in the Closet has less creative merit than a WWF Royal Rumble. The story-lines are so flimsy and thoughtless that pretty much anyone could write an episode. Are you a literate adult? Great, here's your formula: Take a soap opera cliché, sensationalize it, and add singing.

What follows is not only a fun game to play with a group of friends, but also a likely explanation for the writing process of an episode of Trapped. I present to you: “R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs.”

You remember how to play Mad-Libs, right? This version is quite similar. Simply call out all the stuff in parentheses first, jot down the responses, and then recite the whole thing aloud—but don't say it, sing it. Here goes.


Chapter One: "This Crazy Shit be Like Genesis"


Man, this (swear word) is so crazy. I'm all wound-up and I'd rather be lazy. Just lounging around, high on (name of drug), feeling pretty good indeed. But here I am, arguing with (name of stank ho in room). She threatened to call the police, and there's no need for that. I didn't call her fat. I just need to know what's up with her and (name of sleazy pimp in room). Girl, have you been in his bed? Do you want him instead? All those times we (slang for intercourse, past-tense) don't seem to mean a thing, and neither does my bling. Dammit, (slang for wicked woman), you gotta say something. I got no doubts. We gotta work this out. You're my number one girl. When we get down you rock my world, and I'm sorry I gave you (sexually transmitted disease), but if I may retort, we can't go back in time, so just listen to my rhymes.

You know (aforementioned sleazy pimp) is my boy, and if y'all rattled bedsprings like a baby's toy, it's gonna shake my poise. Wait! I just heard a noise.

I think it came from the (common hiding place). Now (slang for wicked woman), don't be stubborn. You can't hide this from me. I won't let it be. I'm gonna pull out my (deadly weapon) and then count to three. I he ain't out by then, to hell he'll descend.

Now first comes one; my heart is beating like a drum. And then comes two. I want to (excretory function, present tense) on the fools in this room.

The door to the (aforementioned hiding place) flew open. I can't believe what's inside; no, I can't trust my eyes. (Swear word), this (swear word) is so (synonym for psychosis). My brain is going hazy. (Aforementioned name of stank ho) was hiding a (term for little person) all along, and he's got his pants down. This is the craziest (swear word) I've ever seen. This dude is hung like (name of male porn star). If you catch my drift, he's got a huge (synonym for male genitalia). Plus he's pointing a gun. I'm not having no fun. Folks, you gotta stay tuned 'cause the (another synonym for psychosis) (swear word) has just begun!

Thoughts in 2013: “I Believe I'll be Snide.”

Are there any good R & B singers anymore? Ones who don't use Auto-Tuners or publicly disgrace themselves by beating or degrading women? In the original print of this column, I tried to clarify that I don't advocate player-hating, and I cited Marvin Gaye as an admirable (and supremely gifted) Player. With a capital “P”! Is there an R & B singer today with half as much talent as Marvin Gaye? Can the soulful magic of the Motown roster that once included Marvin, Stevie, the J-5, and The Temptations be duplicated even a little bit in 2013? (Cee Lo Green, maybe? I have no interest in the talent show racket he's a part of, but he seems legit.) Feel free to comment, to burst my cozy little time-bubble. Act nice, though. I was a dick about R. Kelly, sure, but you should be nice. I for one think that's fair.

Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad

1.


My parents kept a modest record collection in the dining room. It mostly went unused, and since I never took interest in the Bay City Rollers and since The Andy Williams Christmas Album seemed worthless 11 (if not 12) months out of the year, my older sister, rather than mom and dad, happened to shape my earliest memories of music. Eight years my senior, she was not inclined to influence the tastes of her younger brothers, least of all me, but when she brought her favorite mixed tape to our uncle's summer cottage, she had that effect on me, anyway. Aside from one anomaly—a hit by Sir Mix-a-Lot (yes indeed, his ode to big butts)--the tape was comprised of songs by Billy Joel.

I recall laying down on a sleeping bag inside a pup tent beside a battery-powered tape deck and fixating on the sonic portraits this man I took to be a legend had to sing about. His outlook on the baffling world of adults fascinated me and he struck me as a sincere storyteller.

Years later, having developed a more critical account of things that occasionally yields some wisdom, I see that Billy Joel matters as a weary yet passionate performer (“Piano Man”), a survivor of atrocities (“Goodnight Saigon”), and a History teacher who sported shades 'cause he wanted to look tough (“We Didn't Start the Fire”). He is also a cranky individualist (“My Life”), a lover of Motown doo-wop who couldn't quite do justice to that sound (“The Longest Time”), and an imitator of John Travolta's theatrical flair in the movie-musical Grease (“Uptown Girl”). All those songs were included on my sister's mixed tape.

In the pantheon of rock and roll, Billy Joel is not the greatest, but when we consider how wildly he spanned the spectrum of excellence and mediocrity, he is perhaps the most definitively human. For my money, Billy Joel is our foremost expeditionary of both sublimity and crap.

Before elaborating on the Billy Joel state of mind, I should tell you how my first tape deck concert ended: My dad stormed into the backyard, unzipped the tent, shined a flashlight in my eyes, and told me to turn off the racket and go to sleep.

2.

Like my dad, Billy Joel is a Baby Boomer. They were both born in the month of May, in 1951 and 1949, respectively, right in the thick of what must have been a truly swell time to reproduce in America. They were of the generation that sprouted proudly from G.I. Bills and victory in Europe and Japan and was later subjected to draft lotteries and failure in Vietnam. It was a generation of free spirits who rode their motorcycles in the rain only to be plagued by the temptation to become snotty big shots when they reached middle-age. The Boomer lifespan is characterized by jarring changes and restless ebbs and flows.

A Boomer can tell you a lot about human progress, but he can tell you just as much about human limitations.

Billy Joel, like family, stirs conflicted feelings in me, and I doubt I'm alone. Regarding both, I err on the side of love because if I don't life seems a bit shittier. Billy Joel has not instilled in me consistent adoration in me as The Beatles or Beastie Boys have done, but the same goes for my family and their paling to all those funny drunk dudes and beautiful heroines that I knew in college. I'm amazed by my dad. He's awake by six every morning and eager to fix a snow-blower at 6:05—and I have no idea what that's like.

But I've been embarrassed by my dad, too. The fatherly comparisons to Billy Joel listed soon are not auto-biographical, but this one is: My dad referred to fried potato wedges as “wedgies,” and when I had two friends over for a sleep-over in grade school, while we distributed portions of chicken and appetizers at the kitchen table, he straightforwardly asked them, “Would you guys like some wedgies?” He had no clue why they laughed at him, and when our definition of “wedgie” was explained to him, he shook his head and said, “Pfft. Those are called undie-grundies.”

In that instance, dad pulled a real “Keeping the Faith.” It was embarrassing—but at least the old man didn't intend it that way.

What I've done, then, is compile a list of BJ tunes which evoke memories and portraits of dads. Because, to my generation—the one after X that precedes the Half-Second Attention Span Generation, brought to you by China generation—Billy Joel is the embodiment of Everyman's dad.

3.

“Piano Man”

Dad experienced his prime before he even realized it. He was wise beyond his years at a time when his wisdom had little to do with coping with age. At parties, dad captivated rooms, made those rooms as vibrant as carnivals, even when he was scrutinizing others, holding them under microscopes but without scorn. He toasted his fellow man and slept with waitresses he only loved for one night, but he was destined for bigger and better things since he knew something they didn't. He really did. It's just that, years later, he'd learn about the things they knew that he didn't, like the fact that not all sorrows are especially romantic.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

The Biggest Jokes

1.


Beauty
is skin deep.
They dove right in
the shallow end
and twisted their necks—
still we all want to be their friends.



2.

That night by the seaside
they got drunk
out of love for vice
more so than each other
and he ranted scathingly
about the human race
as though he were truly
detached and superior.

She retained nothing
of the conversation in the morning,
but he remembered.
He remembered every last God-damned thing.

After she passed out
he grabbed a stick,
headed to the shore,
and wrote her a love-letter in the sand,
using all the sweetest words,
without a trace of bitterness,
during low-tide.

When she arose achingly
in the morning, he was gone.
She gazed at the high-tide
that stretched closer to her
and felt inexplicably haunted.



3.

Long after the boy
was given pills
to aid his mind
they gave him pills
to fix the damage
the first pills did to his body.
He kept the second pill
in his wallet for a special occasion.

And once in the summer,
on a camping trip,
he left his wallet outside the tent
without knowing
it was going to rain all night.

He awoke to find the second pill dissolved,
reduced to chalky nothingness,
and his brain was at least intact enough to think,
quite rightly,
“This sure sums it up.”

Kind of Likes

^That rare phenomenon of thundersnow is kind of like Mother Nature is somehow burping and farting at the same time.^

My fondness for beer but not liquor is kind of like how I enjoy football but not Ultimate Fighting; I only love those vivid images of livers and men getting pummeled to a certain extent.

Excessive body hair on a man is kind of like evolution failing to realize how rare it is these days to freeze to death due to insufficient back and ass hair.

Those rotten shrubs and signs and fences that block my view of oncoming traffic at an intersection until I creep forward a little bit more are kind of like decorations that flip me the middle finger.

The basketball hoop at the playground that lost its net is kind of like the saddest sight on the planet.

Auto-Tuners are kind of like the answer to the question, “How can we make a singer sound like a robot, but not just an ordinary robot--mind you--I mean a really, really douchey robot?”

Those Faces of Death movies that showed amateur videos of car crashes and other catastrophes that seemed so devilish to me when I was a kid were kind of like the dramatic version of Tosh.O.

That Steely Dan hit "Reeling in the Years" is kind of like a pretentious guy calling his friend pretentious while he plays the guitar like a Philosophy professor who brought his axe into class to impress his students, only--you know--he's still just a Philosophy professor.


Ain't is kind of like a crude mutant of a word and double-negatives are kind of like the antithesis of the intended message...but I ain't never going to preach to stupid people who annoy the hell out of me.