Folk music is the end of a dog's...

...weiner!!!

Bet you all thought I'd say cock, didn't you?

Ever notice these dreary old birkenstock sporting, patchouli smelling hippies always like to tell you the entire goddamn story of how/why/when they wrote the frigging song before they sing it?

"I wrote this one about a friend of mine who was just a beautiful, beautiful person, and we found out on his 40th birthday that he had cancer and just handled the whole thing with such...sniff...grace. Back in '94, we were at their lake house, and the kids were splashing around in the lake and giggling and just being beautiful, while we were sitting around talking about life and death, and the beautiful possibilities of those kids as they grew, and how much they meant to him. And then this storm broke over the lake and we all just stayed there, enjoying the cleansing rain and were waiting for the rainbow and...."

Holy Mary Mother of...for the love of Pete, JUST PLAY THE FUCKING SONG. No, wait, DON'T bother playing it. We KNOW the whole story already now, and plus, you're a dreary, hippie folk artist, so the song is going to SUCK anyway.

GAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy Friday, everyone. I'm going out to kick a busker in the groin and get a beer.

Kisses!



EDIT!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just got back from a stroll around the square. All my 'favorite' buskers were out. (Favorite being ironic, for those of you who are irony-challenged.) There was the "Captain-Hemp-America" douchebag, with his flag-clad puppets and patchouli stench, and that horrible fat old folkie with no ankles in the sandals and floppy hat. You remember, the one who is (by my best guess) female, but who sings "Take the Ribbon from Your Hair" with enough tremolo to vibrate your fillings. It just...hurts.