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Oh, what the sweet fuck is this?
One of my kind readers asked when I was going to write something about Kitty Pryde. “Why would I ever write about the object of Peter Rasputin’s love?” I responded. “She was the shit in ‘Excalibur’.” And then I realized we were talking in a musical context, so off the Internet I went, in search of what the fuck was going on.
I found this fucking tragedy.
Look, I realize we live in a post-everything world, where anyone with a liberal arts degree can justify and exhalt the shittiest of shit. Hey, I swim neck-deep in 5th rate punk rock bands all day long that, if they were a woman, and not a musical group, I would make babies with. But people really need to quit trying to sell me on the concept that shitty rap will change my life, or that it’s fucking life affirming for a teenager to get hype over this. Do you think a Yeastie Girlz t-shirt (a band that broke up before ol’ Kitty Pryde was born, by the way) is going to spare you?!?
So I made a couple of my co-workers listen to this. Neither are huge music guys, but both enjoy a jaunty tune from time to time. Here’s what they had to say:
I can’t wait until October, when someone I respect sends me a Facebook invite to her first show in a 500 person ballroom. And that show sells out.
I’m fucking done with it.