It may sound weird to some readers, but I haven’t listened to pop music since N*sync broke up. I shudder to think that there is a correlation there, but I digress.

"Music peaked with N*Sync" - TLG Contributor Jay Thomas

Don’t get me wrong, I still listen to the radio, but only for sports talk, because I’m a man. A man that loves sports and steak and boobies and any combination of those. But I prefer listening to uncensored, uninterrupted music on my mp3 player rather than going through the torture of local DJ’s and what I assume is shitty music. But that is really an unfair assessment. After all, how can I judge what I have not listened too? It is with that cavalier attitude that I resolved to listen to a few popular songs.

Boom, Boom, Pow – The Black-eyed Peas

"Fergie gives me boners" - TLG Mouthbreather Jay Thomas

I know what you’re thinking, but unfortunately this song (if it can be called that) is not an homage to the classic 1966 film, “Batman” starring Adam West and Burt Ward. The reason? A song about that movie would kick ass, while Boom Boom Pow eats ass.

In the tradition of Bobby McFarren’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” most of the so-called music on the track actually comes from the band saying, “boom, boom, boom” like fucking Bam-Bam. The first verse is pretty painless, but then the silky smooth auto-tuned voice is transformed into some kind of ungodly shrieking and yelling from Fergie. There is a musical interlude involving more shouting of, “Boom! Boom!” followed by an inhuman voice saying something along the lines of, “Let the beast rise.” I thought maybe I was hearing things, before I realized that, in fact it was part of the arrangement. This is just terrible.

Lyric Of Note:

“I’m so three-thousand eight, you so two-thousand and late.”

What the fuck does that mean? Hypothesis: Fergie is actually a 3008 year old succubus that thrives on the misery of others.

So, the first song was a bust. Let’s see what this 3OH!3 is all about.

3OH!3 – Don’t Trust Me

"3Oh!3 give me double the boners that Fergie does" - TLG Ladyboy Enthusiast Jay Thomas

There is some good advice here in the form of, “Don’t trust a ho, don’t trust a ho, NEVER trust a ho.” (I could be mistaken but I’m pretty sure they lifted that line from a Bob Dylan song.) The song then takes a fairly dark turn when the femme-voiced guy starts talking about some girl who is drunk and bruised. This horrifying image is then paired with the lyric, “Shush girl, shut your lips, do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.” Taken at face value, this line informs the listener of Helen Keller’s main mode of communication (talking with her hips,) but I see a scenario of a womanizing, cheating, wife beating, alcoholic taking advantage of underage girls. For shame, 3Oh!3. For shame.

Lyric Of Note:

“Don’t trust a ho.”

This statement alone should be integrated into our education system. Millions would be saved.

3Oh!3 was more enjoyable than the Black Eyed Peas, but less enjoyable than getting a cavity filled so let’s continue onward and hopefully upward.

Lady Gaga – Poker Face

"Though I would not touch Lady Gaga with the dick of a dead man, I am entraced by her dog's come-hither gaze" TLG Pyronecrobestiality Expert Jay Thomas

There is an immense pressure building in my skull. OH SWEET LORD, MY EARS ARE BLEEDING!!!

Lyric Of Note:

I don’t know. The last thing I remember before blacking out was “Show him what I got.”

Pitbull – I Know You Want Me

"This full, luscious ass fills me only with distrust and rage" TLG Cocksucker Jay Thomas

I’m not going to lie; I was kind of hoping that this would sound like “I Want You To Want Me.” However, it proved to be a perfectly serviceable hip-hop/dance single, except for the fact that I could only understand like 8 words in the entire song. I realize that some of it is in Spanish, but a good 2/3 is just random words assembled in what appears to be a message derived from the nonsensical ramblings of someone who just suffered a brain injury. It’s clear from the lyrics that Mr. Bull knows that he is desired by an attractive lady, but everything else is up for debate. Lest you think that my white, suburban ears are casting some kind of prejudice on Pit, here are some lyrics:

Mami got an ass like a donkey
With a monkey
Look like King Kong, welcome to the crib
305, that’s what it is
With a woman down here
The shit don’t play games

What the fuck does that mean? Intrigued, I looked into Pitbull’s other songs to see if this was a one time anomaly. What I found was truly disturbing:

Mami, feel me let me see you touch your toes
or shake that thing and talk wit’ your ass

I may be in the minority here, but even if you are quite a prolific ass-talker (Jim Carrey,) it isn’t the kind of thing that would put me in a taxi straight to bonerville.

Lyric Of Note:

See above.

Even with the confusing lingo, I still liked Pitbull’s song. It was energetic and a little dirty (I think) which is what a club hit is supposed to be.

So what have I learned from my experience with current pop music? Based on the sampling I had, I can safely say that ¾ of all current pop music is absolutely terrible. But the other quarter is inspiring, disturbing, arousing, and disgusting simultaneously.

EDIT: The night I finished the draft for this article, I was wooing this cute girl at the club. Feeling like I should let her know how hip I was, I told her that she had a “talking donkey ass” and was quickly and mercilessly shot down and spat upon. In retrospect, Pitbull is a jackass and all pop music is terrible.

EDIT II: I realize that calling Pitbull a jackass may be misconstrued as a flirtatious gesture in some circles. Allow me to clarify. Fuck Pitbull.

EDIT III: Shit. “Fuck Pitbull.” I didn’t mean this literally. I meant to say that Pitbull is not a nice man and that I care nothing for him or his music.

EDITOR’S AFTERWORD: Those of you paying close attention to the picture captions may have noticed a slight discrepancy between them and the opinions Jay puts forward in the rest of the article. I know nothing about this. However, I do know that if I were the kind of person who insulted Canada every chance I got, I would not be very surprised if my Canadian editor altered one of my articles to make me seem like a deranged mental pervert.

Great article, Jay!

Anyhow, this is all a very roundabout method of telling you lovely people that update droughts like this are not something we here at TLG plan on making a habit of, and in that spirit, here’s a little poem Jay whipped up in honor of Memorial Day.*

FUCK YOU, THIS IS A MEMORIAL DAY POEM

By Jay Thomas

Twas the day of Memorial, as I sat in my room
Watching t.v., and tripping on shrooms.
While a dragon and elf made love in my bed.
I sincerely hoped they were just in my head.

The summer was sweltering, humid and hot.
“Shit! I need fireworks.” I said as I thought.
Excited and smiling, I rose to my feet.
Then the elf winked at me and said, “take a seat.”

I ignored the elf and his lover the dragon.
And got in my car, a Ford Taurus Wagon.
With a wizard beside me, I rode into town.
And searched for fireworks while I came down.

I stopped at a station and pumped some gas.
Saw an old shopkeep and thought I would ask.
“Sir, I need fireworks. Where might they be?”
“Not here.” He said. “Them’s illegal in Tennessee.”

To Alabama I went, despite my head being clearer
When I noticed the gas pump, in my side view mirror.
I stopped and trashed the hose, right next to a sign.
“Welcome to Alabama – where we don’t like mine… orities”

When what to my wandering eyes should appear
But a specialty store, selling fireworks and beer.
I walked in and demanded I be sold some wares.
And walked out with Chinese explosives bundled with care.

I started driving back home, feeling just super
And saw the blue lights of TN state trooper.
He tapped on my window, but I stepped on the gas.
“Eat my dust, you hole of an ass!”

I floored it back home, not feeling dumb
Lit up a rocket and blew off my thumb.
“Holy shit! Holy shit!” I said with a shout
as ounces of blood. Wait. No. Pints poured out.

My douchebag neighbor, Ted called 911.
And the paramedics arrived, stopping my fun.
The police came with them, arrest warrant in tow.
“Fuck you, Ted! I blame you, you homo!”

I was put in a squad car, still minus a thumb.
And seated beside an old smelly bum.
The hobo turned to me, coke dust on his nose
“Who are you? And where are your clothes?”

“Quiet down back there.” Said the cop in the front.
I hated that guy. He was such a huge cunt.
It’s Memorial Day, so go have a blast.
As I await trial and cover up my ass.

*Of course, being Canadian I don’t celebrate Memorial Day. Unlike citizens of some nations, I had to work today. I mowed sixteen goddamn lawns while you yanks were shoving firecrackers up your nostrils or whatever it is you do on you queer-ass holiday.

Dear Ignorant Cunt Who Ran Me Off The Road,

I hope this letter finds you well, as you were obviously too preoccupied with some personal problem to check your blind spot before merging into my lane. Elementary physics tells us that two objects cannot occupy the same space simultaneously. Obviously you don’t quite grasp this concept, as you attempted to disprove it with your mid-80s-model Tercel.

This blatant disregard for the core tenets of physics and basic spatial relationships should have come as no surprise to me, as you were somehow able to wedge your cellulite-addled girth into that poor compact car despite the fact that, to the naked eye, there should have been no way to force your way through the rusted red door. I have my own theories on how you were able to manipulate the enumerable rolls of lard, like those that hung so heavily from your bulldog-like jowls. These theories involve manipulation of cabin pressure by way of a large vacuum. Regardless of how you managed it, the feat remains impressive.

Even as I veered from the road and made my way onto the shoulder, I was able to take note of your Cheeto-stained fingers grasping a cellular phone. By the faraway look in your eyes, I assume that you were ordering a minimum of four large pizzas to stuff into your eagerly awaiting maw. I can only hope, for the good of humanity that you were on your way to a beauty salon, or in the somewhat likely event that you were a bear, a groomer, as the Caucasian afro-mullet combination, or “frollet” is rightfully frowned upon.

There are WAY more image search results for "bear driving a car" than you think there are.

As my car neared the concrete safety barrier, I noticed a rainbow of paints on your driver side. These streaks of paint (possibly the dried blood of pedestrians?) were displayed prominently as if your car were a decorated soldier returning from the front lines, only instead of fighting for your country, you’ve slammed into dozens of innocent people’s vehicles. Not nearly as noble a cause, I can assure you.

Your one working taillight illuminated a series of bumper stickers. Though I have never been formally introduced, as just the mere sight of you left a taste in my mouth I can only describe as bile-y, I know just what kind of person you are by the opinions stuck haphazardly to the back of your car. Stickers like:

A picture of the solar system with the caption, “14 planets.”

This little gem tells me that you probably listen to shows like Earth and Sky and then parrot what you hear to coworkers who absentmindedly refer to Pluto as a planet instead of a planetoid.

FUCK YOU $CEINCEtIST$

“Teach your kids science, not science fiction”

This bumper sticker tells the reader that you are an “intellectual” whose satisfaction comes only by telling people that their views are wrong unless they agree with you. Ironically, the opposite side of the trunk was home to a sticker that read, “COEXIST” spelled out using a variety of religious and cultural insignias. Perhaps this was some kind of commentary on the dichotomy of science and religion, or much more likely, you are fucking retarded.

FUCK YOU, 6Od

Finally, the classic: “My Kid Is An Honor Roll Student”

I wrote this one off as a prank, for the simple fact that only the most well-endowed man would be able to stab through the layers of mayonnaise-filled lard to impregnate you. And assuming that at one time you were thinner than a medium sized elephant, your face would still make any self-respecting heterosexual man’s dick as limp and soft as the most delicious pasta from Olive Garden.

FCUK U

In conclusion, I would like to say that I dislike you and everything that you stand for.

Die In A Fire,

Jay

It’s been said that Barack Obama has set a new standard for African-American achievement. Alliteration aside, Obama ran a campaign that promised change. And change he brought. Sure, the whole culmination of the ideals brought forth in the Civil Rights movement seems important, but can we look past race for a moment to perhaps an even more significant stride in equal rights? I’m talking, of course, about making fun of the mentally handicapped.

It’s about time someone took the Special Olympics down a peg. Too long has this “charitable organization” sat in its ivory tower in the clouds, far above the insults hurled from the peasants living in its shadow. But no more. The recently elected commander-in-chief took the public’s burden upon his broad, ebony shoulders and in a sense said, “No more will the tyrants of good taste and appropriateness hold sway over the populous. No more will American’s have to whisper unsavory jokes under their breath in the shadows of society and in e-mail forwards. America wants to scream its tasteless jokes in the streets. And now with hope and change and an arsenal of Helen Keller jokes, I say to you all, ‘Yes, we can.’”

"Yes we CAN laugh at the mongoloid we sit next to in art class!"

Was President Obama’s comment callous, insensitive, and somewhat mean-spirited? Absolutely. But more importantly, it was hilarious. This hilarity combined with Barack Obama’s natural charisma and charm met to become the perfect storm of acceptability. Everything went smoothly from the self-deprecating angle of the joke to the passive delivery. By making the joke so flawlessly, Obama has literally dropkicked the testicles of injustice, which then led to the dizzying nausea of awareness, and finally the bloodied vomit of reform was sprayed all over the nation.

Now, historically speaking, this is not the first time that an American President has attempted to joke his way into the history books. In 1942, with WWII’s end in sight, Harry S. Truman attempted to smooth over conflicts with Europe by making a joke at the expense of Mexico. This joke, which has been lost to the annals of history, was delivered awkwardly and reportedly “trailed off at the end.” Disaster ensued, leading to the infamous Zoot Suit Riots of Los Angeles, an event so disastrous that it would eventually resurface in 1997 under the guise of a Cherry Poppin’ Daddies album.

Just IMAGINE the tunes that will be made about the fallout from Obama's joke! He's WAY cooler than Truman!

Some of you may be asking what advantages could possibly come from an off-color remark? Just think about it. The term “retarded” has been thought of as politically incorrect for years, but when the foremost political leader of America makes a joke or reference previously thought “un-PC” on national television, it automatically becomes politically correct. In fact, speaking from a legal standpoint, not joking about the Special Olympics could easily be considered treason.

But what of the rest of the world? Won’t they view this as insensitive? We can only hope. We are currently involved in the War on Terror. I ask you, how can we fight terrorists abroad when we are too afraid to use certain words here at home? We can’t. It’s impossible. By showing the terrorists that no one is safe from our unabashed vocabulary, Barack Obama has effectively brought the hammer down on the terror makers. It is only a matter of time before the most dangerous factions shrivel up like a dick in ice water.

Do yourself a favor and don't picture it.

Dear readers, the Special Olympics remark of ’09 is just the tip of the iceberg. It is only a matter of time before the President Ba-rocks the shit out of some racial slurs, then it’s on to the fags. This is the beginning of complete and total equality in America (don’t screw this opportunity up, white people). The next time you get gunned down on Xbox Live, don’t be afraid to call your assassin a retard. Say it with pride. Say it with America in your heart and a huge, freedom-loving erection in your pants. I know I will.