The Phil Wells Dot Com

I Got A Big Mouth

Tag: a slug’s ass

The Worst Song Ever

(Edit: Evidently the guy’s name is Roy.)

I started a Pandora station using “Golden Slumbers” by The Beatles  because that’s just good work music.  It’s something soothing that I can ignore.  Well I must have taken a wrong turn and liked the wrong thing because somehow this ended up streaming on that station:

Link: “Wear A Fast Gun” – Wizzard

If you need to sign up for imeem to hear this thing, DO IT.  Grown people  need to be  exposed to this song for the same reason they need to know what genocide is: you need to know when it’s happening at the same party you’re at.

The guy responsible for Wizzard and, hence, this abomination is a guy named Roy Wood.  Evidently he left Electric Light Orchestra to start this new band.  And this is one of the songs they came up with.  Smooth move, Roy Wood.

I feel bad even letting you know that this song is out there, so I’ll try as best I can to comfort you here on a moment-by-moment basis.  Read along as “Wear A Fast Gun” gathers in oaty clots in your ears.

  • 0:00 – 0:15.  Okay, this is bad.  They’ve already introduced you to their good friend the distant French horn.  More than letting you know that this is going to be “progressive”, they’re creating the mood of the beginning of a long journey.  People, this song is over 9 minutes long.  If it sounds like a dirge, it’s because that’s how long it would take a slow diabetic to drag a corpse to Mordor.  Oh, and the way the notes coming out of that instrument sound like they don’t really line up, as if an intermediate-level teen is playing the horn?  Get used to that.
  • 0:15 – 0:21.  Don’t panic.  Yes, that is what the lead vocalist sounds like.  Yes, the first line of this epic rock ballad is, “When you’re walking down.”  The truth is it does not improve after this moment.  In a while it actually gets worse.  But still, it’s just a song right?  You can deal with what sounds like Ozzy Osbourne covering folk songs at full belt, can’t you?
  • 0:30 – 0:33.  Man, listen to that bass guitar fill the rhythm.  Nice little walk there, you might even say.  Except that isn’t a bass guitar.  This song has no bass guitar.  THAT’S A FUCKING TUBA.
  • 0:46 – 0:51.  When I first heard the song I thought this was the point where the ridiculous intro ended and the rock and roll kicked in.  Sadly, the whole thing is ridiculous.  Also, I hope you’ve paid attention during the first minute here, because there’s no expansion of the concepts you’ve just been introduced to.  The whole thing is about walking down an unpaved street and not doing anything about anything.  I’m so serious.  I’d tell you to really listen to verify that I’m right but, yeah, don’t.
  • 0:51 – 0:59.  To elaborate on the feeling I explained before that you’re no doubt experiencing now, the second time this guy starts singing is a little like coming up from a wave in the ocean after a lot of water just went up your nose but knowing that now you’re okay only to be hit right away by a second wave this time made of baby shit.
  • 1:01 – 1:04.  “Feeling all screwed up inside.”  Wow.  So bad.
  • 1:22 – 1:36.  Okay, this is the chorus.  I’m not sure what a fast gun is.  It’s either a gun that is fired at one’s enemies so fast that they are unable retaliate, or it’s a gun that one never uses at all so no one gets pissed off.  Either way, listen to those high notes.  It’s like a parrot sat on a little toilet full of acid and his balls dipped in a little.
  • 1:36 – 3:07.  You ever eat too much and get up real quick and the vomitus gets into your throat but you’re able to swallow it back?  Well, that’s fantastic for you.  I just blew chunks all over the remote.  You suck, song!
  • 3:07 – 3:37.  Jeez Louise.  This sounds like background music that Warcraft 2 threw away.
  • 3:37 – 4:42.  By now you’ve stopped listening.  I’m not mad about that.  It’s only natural.  It was folly to assume you’d persevere through this dreck for the sake of a dumb blog post.  If you made it near this far, you’re in possession of an amazing constitution and I commend you.  Lord holy God this is awful.  At some point Roy Wood must have thought this was working, and that makes me feel bad for him.  Does anyone know him?  Is he a computer that’s been kicked by a sheep?  Because in my dreams that’s what he is.
  • 4:42 – 5:13.  Oh yeah.  There’s a choir of baritones in this part.  On the bright side, maybe those guys are all dead now.
  • 5:17 – 5:30.  It’s like they told their flautist to prepare his own solo and instead he developed Parkinson’s disease.  If flute music is like a butterfly in flight, that solo was like a butterfly I’d like to take a dump on in flight.
  • 5:30 – 9:17.  This is proof that just because you’ve got a bunch of classical instruments all playing at once, you’re not necessarily making classical music.  Or even music.  Like you’d know if a kid with a violin is just making noise, so this band just makes noise for nigh on four god damn minutes that I’ll never get back.  At some point the choir comes back.  Man.  It’s hard to keep telling you guys about this.  It’s draining me.  The last moments (by which I mean the last 20 whole seconds) mark the return of the flute solo, which is a fitting death rattle.  The whole thing fades away like a giant slug cramming itself down into a septic tank and killing itself in the process.

I’ve listened to it again.  I’m now angry and disappointed that a human or group of humans conceived of this.  These poor bastards probably had to tour with this terrible song.

Damn it.

Really, my life sucks a little more every time I hear it.  I’m sorry, guys.  This has been a mistake.

Damn.  What a shitty song.

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Dream Journal

No one likes to listen to the contents of other people’s dreams.  I know this.  Still, I had a whopper of a dream last night and I feel like writing it down so’s I don’t forget about it.

You’d probably infer this anyway, but this was inspired by Robitussin.

So I was dreaming some inocuous dream (I think Philip Seymour Hoffman had joined the Imps, my college improv group, and he wanted us to see “Doubt” in a digital theater).  For some reason we ended up in a big, big room standing under a loft-like overhang.  Some ambiguously gendered pale seer showed up and prohesied a horrible creature that is doomed to constantly be killed and then operated upon by its murderer.  Then it comes back to life bearing the terrible results of its posthumous operation.

Sure enough, this thing slithered down out of the loft overhead and the only weapon I had handy was a bit of stiff wire.  The thing had 5 womens’ heads, but not lined up on its shoulders like a hydra.  They were more sort of clumped together, protruding out of a huge fleshy mound on its neck like peanuts in a melty Mr. Goodbar.  It may have had a slug’s ass instead of legs.  I did battle with it and won, but for some reason I didn’t perform an operation on it.  I guess the cycle was broken.

Then I woke up and it was 4 AM.  I rolled over to go back to sleep but I didn’t want the monster to show up again so I thought of monkeys playing soccer.  Then I realized how easily that could turn into a nightmare, so I thought of something else.  Football, I think.

Robitussin is nightmare sauce.