Don’t Buy Records! Don’t Buy Magazines! Don’t Buy Anything We Tell You! It’s the Return of the Bullshit Detectors

by J.P. Miggins, Oil Coal Tycoon

Any Marxist worth his ‘A’ marks in political science knows that the bourgeoisies are corrupt enough to wipe that self-fulfilling need that comes from within clean out of your brain and replace it with a vacuuming black hole of desire. And any capitalist worth his weight in shiny nickels understands that the communist ideals of old could never operate under the bloodthirsty, human behavior that has existed for thousands of years. Fuck those hippie dreams! Of course, there is no real difference between a hippie and a punk, only their garb; BUT, DON’T TELL THEM THAT! Better check that mohawk for yellow butterflies, Sunshine, because you’re going need more than Manic Panic and a studded jacket to save your principles from those devourers of carrion overshadowing that dancing carcass holding the remote control.

Expressions of bile spill out of my mouth in those moments of weakness about that she-wolf whom spins on seductive grooves of transitory bliss. Having toiled in the critical viewpoint of the observer and as the leader of the pack, I’ve learned how these rubber conveyer belts that carrying jars of Hitler’s brains are run; consequently, I’ve noticed how patterns of notes, chords, and riffs get from Garage Land to your hot pink iPod Mini. It’s not a pretty, quixotic notion of the great paternal ghost of old bringing down those sanctimonious stone tablets of wisdom, or art and poetry from a winged chariot rider who connects us to the One, that might be popping into your cranium; it’s a deceptive and dishonest manipulation of your opinions that results in cash-money for everybody except you, the servile consumers.

Impedimental record labels, associations, publishers, dealers, advertisers, agents, publicists, and all those “vital” leeches that help control the artists’ distribution to consumers are stuck with Alex Trebek on Jeopardy answering questions like, “Why should we give you our money?” By the over saturation of mediocrity and the push for “the new” these soulless leeches are scrapping their knees blowing their lawyers for suits against Jeopardy’s panel of judges. This isn’t Josie and the Pussycats; Rachel Lee Cook isn’t going to give you that hand-job she promised back at the bowling alley. This is the wind-swept ninth ring, and your icicle shouldn’t be your only concern. Romantic notions aside, black, round pieces of plastic may, or may not, have that aural aesthetic that those silvery, homosexual discs have, but the unnecessary push down that green waterfall of currency will be the undoing of every chewed up piece of meat the wolves have dragged back to their squalid dens via a continuum of numbers and variables. The ants will spread their wings of wax and escape from their queen’s siren of avaricious cries to buy.

Ominously seated in her nest of banknotes, the sordid hen regurgitates the remains of her rations into the ugly fledglings’ throats. The golden, floating smiley-face, holding its precious coupons within its gnashing teeth, has transmuted those little chicks with the machine’s slash and burn methods of fuel, feeding its rusting gears to that foul landfill it has created. The machine once served those skilled antennas of divinity, handing out their 10¢ candy to those dirty little cherubs for a penny; now, only its selfish idolum exists, hoarding emerald nuts in its gilded knot. This paralysis has spread into every business model that pays for the fabrication of recorded music. Every record label with midnight dreams of drinking the milk from the artist’s tit has sucked itself into a prosaic abyss. They are forced to release cash cows into a pasture of corroded bills in an attempt to exist, stifling exposure of true devisers in their fantastical wiles.

Unprotected from its inevitable destruction, the printed page of old will burn in the ashes of its intemperance and give birth to a fresh, digital infant. The trickster, in his Asgardian boot-cut jeans, has lost his grip on the media. Labels cannot digitally shit all over the pages in the ether of optical cables buried in the earth’s soil, groaning in abject elation about the anal penetration of adolescents, like they can in a Rolling Stone magazine. The control of packaged angst has been liquefied by their debasement. To the besmirched hogs of business the sight of emaciated infants, with their sunken eye sockets and bloated bellies, form shapes of sublime dollar signs. The credence that an infinite number of silver coins will rain down from that great piggybank in the sky has infected the machine’s original purpose of artistic freedom, creativity, and advancement of human innovation.

Once you depart
From the Elysium Womb
What will you be, Johnny?

Oils and stones
A beggar in one life,
A giver in the next.

You’ll starve.

The stage is set for the serpent-fucking floozies and apish Cro-Magnons, with bullet wounds, to dance and hypnotize the senses with uninspired dribble. They peddle the newest in magical cleanliness for those spotty, red zits so others can look like a serpent-fucking floozy or apish Cro-Magnon (sans bullet wounds, but that can always be remedied). A soul in Purgatorio, who washed his colorful paints that were once filled with the dirt of the damned, said it best, “Earthly fame is but a breath of wind.” The ghastly remains of our culture will favor those who’ve brought light to the ever-changing understanding of human behavior and life. Yet these vampires involved in the promotion of products, not art, are sucking the blood out of the thin blue veins of the already dying sow of pop culture. The contemporary system of payola turns it’s diamond-encrusted wheel, exchanging money for media coverage, and herds the begetters of tomorrow into a deaf maze, where they wait for the offspring of Pasiphae to ravish their bodies for bones. The devil with over 1200 faces that monopolizes the radio dial is diluting yet another river that artists sail, sending waves of teenagers to that gallery of commerce where the newest in thought-free products can be yours if Bob Barker licenses his phrase.

This merry-go-round of money has a darkening cloud on the horizon. We’ll all look damn nice in our blue coats when sheets of pixilated rain comes down on top of us in a torrent. We’ll be damn happy. The Neo-Babylonian Age of Nimrod has built a digital tower that will unify the world once again. Thanks to the magnificent powers of mass communication, we are returning to that omni-society that we once were. In the utopia I envision the only beautiful faces you’ll see are the melodies that run through your mind – the Internet-navel. The ancient idea of castles and serfs in the Hampton’s will burn away like the smog over California’s golden coast. Music will exist in the Ethernet eternal, its originators will deal directly in the love for art, and in return their work will flourish, die, and rejuvenate forever.