Hope For Tomorrow

Christ on a cracker! How the time has flown! It seems like just yesterday I was sipping a 40oz on the porch and giving mad props to dead Presidents in 2005 and here it is, President's Day 06. I don't know about you people, but President's Day has always had a special place in my little, black heart, just behind Arbor Day and slightly ahead of Be Kind To Kittens' Day. It's the one day I take time out of my busy schedule of griping and hiding in the bathroom at work to reflect on how much better the world will be when I am crowned, President of the Universe. Unsurprising, to anyone who knows me, I have given this a good deal of thought- this is not something you just go and do half-assed. Since I am a veritable genius at delegation, I will, of course, enlist my dutiful minions to do my bidding and take care of all day-to-day matters. I won't have time to bother myself with tiresome issues such as world peace, environmental causes, animal neutering, etc. I'm going to ensure I don't overextend myself by limiting my time to only important issues, namely, musical policing, drinking, general belligerency, and punishing artists who get on my goddamned nerves.

Don't get too excited, my plans for world domination are still in what we call the "developmental stage." You probably wouldn't believe this, but there is an undercurrent of evil, dark forces that are actively trying to thwart my inevitable rise to power. (MM) So until my strategy of world domination reaches fruition, I'm resigning myself to offering the world a mere taste of the bright future that lies ahead. I would entitle my master plan, my Thousand Points of Light, but that's been done before by some other jackass and without making another beer run to the convenience store, I seriously doubt I have the mental stamina to even come up with more than ten. I'm going to simply call it: The Way: The Future is Brighter Since Rachel Is Righter. Here's just a sample of one of the points on my agenda, which is, of course, subject to revision at any time due to any passing whim or when I finish the last of the PBR, whichever comes first. The entire plan will be furthered detailed in subsequent columns.

Dealing with those pesky Canadians and their loathsome musical exports.

Someone remarked to me recently that Canadian musicians make a strong case for the enaction of a death penalty. I generally try to ignore this person's epiphanies, mainly because I feel he may be leading the campaign to block me from world domination, but, in this particular case I think he's right on the money. I mean, let's be honest- At least 99% of the music and musicians themselves that Canada inflicts on us are absolute shit. If it were not for Labatt Blue and its subtle bouquet on the palate or the sweet goodness that is harvested in British Columbia, there's really no need to recognize Canada as anything more than what they really are- an American peninsula. Three examples of their heinous musical exports, if you will:

Chad Kroeger of Nickelback

Now, here is a man so ugly that the very sight of him on tv this afternoon rendered me unable to finish my gourmet lunch of Ramen noodles. Luckily, they were of the nasty shrimp- flavored variety, so it wasn't a great loss, but that's not the point. Somebody should give him the number of that lady's doctor in France who performed the facial transplant. He's probably made buckets of money from album sales to equally ugly white people and with the right amount of financial persuasion and extensive surgery, I think the doctors might have a half-way decent shot of making him appear almost human. If nothing else, maybe they could "accidentally" sever his vocal chords during the process. He's not talented enough to make me ignore his ugliness and Nickelback's music makes me seriously rethink the need for functioning eardrums.

Alanis Morissette

Alanis is the B-grade Fiona Apple for the higher-functioning teen. She is for the deep and mournful 13-year-old girl who cries in her bedroom every night while writing bad poetry and burning vanilla candles, but still manages to make a nightly appearance at the family dinner table. Her fans don't have the ovaries or emotional problems necessary to be as tragic and forlorn as Apple's listeners. Males who listen to her music are even worse; they're either secretly gay or wish they had a vagina, or both. And somebody please buy her a dictionary for Christmas so she can understand the meaning of irony. It's ironic that she wrote a song entirely about irony and never once correctly used an example of irony in the song.

Avril Lavigne

Oh, Avril- Why do you have to go and make things so complicated? Why can't you do us all a favor and fade into obscurity or die or something helpful? I pray that your 15 minutes are almost up and that you would have a tragic on-stage accident and hang yourself with your own necktie. Oh, wait- I think you've stopped wearing those. (I can't even begin to tell you how much the fact that I know this irritates the shit out of me.) Actually, it might be funnier if a disgruntled fan who was really pissed that she had amassed an entire wardrobe of wife-beaters and neckties before you initiated your wardrobe change, broke into your closet and stole one and strung you up, herself. I would pay this person handsomely and even offer them a high-ranking position in my cabinet, maybe Chief Tie-Assassin in the Anti-Canadian division. If my readers don't know by now why her music is the pinnacle of horseshit, then I don't have the intestinal fortitude required to explain it.

I could go on and on, but I’ll just leave it at that for now.