Sting
Poor sad twain. Spending his time attacking Hall & Oates and Whitney Houston. Your desperation is showing.
Whitney and Hall & Oates have their place. Gay men need to have sex and there needs to be music playing when the top bottoms out and his balls start bouncing against bottom. Do you really want to deny them the pleasure of hearing "I Will Always Love You" or "Maneater" when they spread to stretch their sphincters?
Of course the English don't understand Whitney, Daryl and John. In America we are progressive and our gay men are out, proud and buying records. In the UK, the gays get jobs at boarding schools or working for Prince Andrew. Then, they pretend to like Echo and the Bunnymen and Kate Bush.
They vote for Gordon Brown, before going home, putting on a Margaret Thatcher wig, shoving a hairbrush up their ass and thinking lurid thoughts about Tony Blair, all the while playing their secret stash of Whitney CDs that they keep well hidden under their mattress.
It's sad really.
But, deep down in your hearts, you know that children really are our future and we need to teach them well and let them lead the way. This is the type of uplifting message that we need to hear day in and day out.
Whitney will always love you.
Now, let's get on to the real deal. One American actress when she got her first academy award screamed "You like me! You really like me!" After yesterday's poll, Sting should stand up and bellow "You hate me! You really hate me!"
Sting is the anti Midas. Instead of gold, everything he touches turns to shit. His fan base consists of:
1. Advance stage Alzheimer's patients.
2. Those who think that Paul McCartney is "too radical and edgy."
3. People who have failed in life and therefore truly understand him.
4. The deaf.
He once wrote a song about it being difficult to get tea in New York City, because everyone drank coffee. I suspect that what really happened is that nobody wanted to serve him anything and figured that by offering him a cup of joe, he might simply walk away. Or, that the caffeine might give him a pulse.
Listening to Sting is like taking morphine. Take a little bit and you'll fall asleep. Take too much and you will destroy your soul, and quite possibly die. Become addicted and you will lose your friends, family and self respect.
While normal rock and popular singers are capable of getting on stage with three or four guys and rocking the house, Sting plays with hundreds of backup musicians, whose sole purpose seems to be to drown out his whiny voice.
This is a man who could not hack it as a teacher in a socialist country. That's like not being able to get laid in a Tijuana whore house. He is a bassist without rhythm and a singer who thinks that pomposity and vacuousness will confuse people enough to listen to him.
His music is like his sexual technique - it fucks you for hours without getting off.
I could list his horrible, horrible singles one by one, but what's the point? Just thinking about the Dance of the Blue Turtles album makes me want to shoot up.
Instead, I think I'll just pour myself a shot of vodka, crank up Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and dream of a better world in which Fortress Around Your Heart never hit the airwaves.
Whitney and Hall & Oates have their place. Gay men need to have sex and there needs to be music playing when the top bottoms out and his balls start bouncing against bottom. Do you really want to deny them the pleasure of hearing "I Will Always Love You" or "Maneater" when they spread to stretch their sphincters?
Of course the English don't understand Whitney, Daryl and John. In America we are progressive and our gay men are out, proud and buying records. In the UK, the gays get jobs at boarding schools or working for Prince Andrew. Then, they pretend to like Echo and the Bunnymen and Kate Bush.
They vote for Gordon Brown, before going home, putting on a Margaret Thatcher wig, shoving a hairbrush up their ass and thinking lurid thoughts about Tony Blair, all the while playing their secret stash of Whitney CDs that they keep well hidden under their mattress.
It's sad really.
But, deep down in your hearts, you know that children really are our future and we need to teach them well and let them lead the way. This is the type of uplifting message that we need to hear day in and day out.
Whitney will always love you.
Now, let's get on to the real deal. One American actress when she got her first academy award screamed "You like me! You really like me!" After yesterday's poll, Sting should stand up and bellow "You hate me! You really hate me!"
Sting is the anti Midas. Instead of gold, everything he touches turns to shit. His fan base consists of:
1. Advance stage Alzheimer's patients.
2. Those who think that Paul McCartney is "too radical and edgy."
3. People who have failed in life and therefore truly understand him.
4. The deaf.
He once wrote a song about it being difficult to get tea in New York City, because everyone drank coffee. I suspect that what really happened is that nobody wanted to serve him anything and figured that by offering him a cup of joe, he might simply walk away. Or, that the caffeine might give him a pulse.
Listening to Sting is like taking morphine. Take a little bit and you'll fall asleep. Take too much and you will destroy your soul, and quite possibly die. Become addicted and you will lose your friends, family and self respect.
While normal rock and popular singers are capable of getting on stage with three or four guys and rocking the house, Sting plays with hundreds of backup musicians, whose sole purpose seems to be to drown out his whiny voice.
This is a man who could not hack it as a teacher in a socialist country. That's like not being able to get laid in a Tijuana whore house. He is a bassist without rhythm and a singer who thinks that pomposity and vacuousness will confuse people enough to listen to him.
His music is like his sexual technique - it fucks you for hours without getting off.
I could list his horrible, horrible singles one by one, but what's the point? Just thinking about the Dance of the Blue Turtles album makes me want to shoot up.
Instead, I think I'll just pour myself a shot of vodka, crank up Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and dream of a better world in which Fortress Around Your Heart never hit the airwaves.