Green Day, You’ve been dismissed.

Billy Joe, Tre Cool, and some guy that looks like your molester uncle Carl. They were a three piece punk act that brought you catchy tunes about jacking off in a pseudo-british accent when you were young, or a lot younger than you are now. I got the absolute prostate exam pleasure of catching these dictionary definitions of the word “sell outs” on the season finale of Saturday Night Live. Their first song of the night during the Will Ferrell hosted show, immediately dipped my comedy induced boner into a bath of boiling acid. It was entitled “Know Your Enemy”, hmmm, a song about political shit and rebelling against the system, why does this sound familiar? Oh, now I know, it’s like that Rage Against the Machine song about political crap, with a similar, no, the exact same title.. Nothing like cashing in on the nation’s hard times by switching your M.O. (mode of operation for you geniuses) from songs about jacking your sweaty dick to over throwing the government.

I guess masturbation has finally lost it’s fun. And who better to take advice from than Billy Joe, who now looks like Froto Baggins in heavy eyeliner, dressed to go to a My Chemical Bromance concert in his three inch platform creepers, so he can see above the bar top to order his appletini. Speaking of sweet looks, Tre Cool now looks like one of the characters from a Dr. Seuss book, which one you ask? Well, I wikipediaed that shit and couldn’t find anything in the first thirty seconds and then realized how little I fucking care which one, fuck you for asking. The second phenomenally gay song they played was an acoustic “jam” about Vietnam or Apartheid or the price hike on cherry lipgloss. Like the first song, they were not a three piece again. The first had an extra guitarist which is understandable since Billy Joe has gotten far more faggotty over the years, it stands to reason that his ability to play an instrument would diminish also, science. But this one, since playing an acoustic song with three people is about as possible as Webster beating Michael Phelps in butterfly, had three extra guitarists, a douche on piano and one of these three mystery stringmen was backing up on vocals. So, two bassists, three guys playing guitar, hm, Slipknot has fewer members.

Gee, I can’t wait for Green Day to get the London Philharmonic to play old songs with them for a really special album with hot violins and homo vibes. It would be just like that other band that started out as something somewhat genuine and then morphed into a gang of turd burglaring dicks, Metallica. Maybe Green Day and Metallica can all get together for a wine and cheese party on one of their yachts bought with money dirtier than a prom night cock, and discuss how much they hate torrents and how they can better acclimate themselves to the TRL crowd. Green Day, take your pink ties and hang yourselves. You went from punk to punk-pop to Gap dressing room musak to a point of selling out that makes truck stop sodomy look wholesome. You’ve been dismissed.

Every place that is NOT Nitro, West Virginia: You’re Dismissed.

So I learned of a new (to me) place today that really piqued-NO! PEAKED! my interest. That place is Nitro, West Virginia. That’s right; NITRO. Can’t fuck with it, people!
” *Ho-Hum*Just another boring night in Nitro, I guess.” Would that even make any sense?? Not in this universe, pal! Nitro is rockin’ off of the chain 24/7! God DAMN IT, I want to be a part of it all.
Can you fucking imagine the 3,000-or-so awesome meth-fueled 26 year old momgirls who run that town right now? Do you even want to? I do! Have been all day long, in fact.
I’ll bet the life expectancy around Nitro way is under 45. Hope so, anyway. Not because I am some kind of monster who wishes death on people, more that my vision for Nitro is that of confused and extremely fast-paced (literally. Like, doing everything REALLY FAST) living in a browned woodland area. Dangerous. Exciting. Unpredictable as all hell. Hidden from the rest of the world, and why would they give a fuck. Lots of rusted out badass trucks running any/all of the town’s 10 Stop signs at will. Going into the town’s Hardees or Dairy Queen to order just a small Coke with extra straws. The Sheriff is some dude named “Cranky Ed”, whose job it is to thump you over the head if you get too far out of line. Utopia in the Aarvarks…Adirondacks…fucking Apalachies. Whatever those are called.
I wonder if there is a strip club or two in Nitro. What wonderful places those must be. Especially around lunch time during the “workweek”. Do the people of Nitro even have to work, like you and I know it here in Turdsville-Because-It’s-Not-Nitro, USA? Maybe they don’t even work there-holy crap, I just thought about what the 4th Of July must be like in downtown Nitro. New Year’s Eve. FUCK! I want in! I don’t even know if I could hang…
Oh goddamn. I just googled Nitro and it seems they are located in THE CHEMICAL VALLEY, which “at its peak in the late 1950s and early 1960s, was the leading producer of chemicals in the world”. How vague but unquestionably awesome a feat! Those were obviously over-the-table “legit” chemicals. Imagine the illegal chemicals being cooked up there now. Holy cow, I want to go there so badly. Just for a week. I don’t know if a weekend would cut it. If I could hang, I mean. I’d probably be dead in two days. Funned to death. Ol’ Cranky Ed would find my tensed-up corpse in the center of town square on Monday morning, poke my body with a stick, shake his head and mutter, “Whut’a gulldang pussy. He coodn’t hang.”
The town chant doesn’t even need a “GO!” or a “HAIL!” All they gotta do is sternly say their town’s name and there you go. “NITRO.” You say it. See? Gets their point across. The point being: DO NOT FUCK WITH THIS PLACE: WE. ROCK. I get the point, Nitro. I think you probably rule. You have to. NITRO! My stupid ass town don’t even got no town chant, for fuck’s sake. And if we do, ain’t nobody told me ‘bout it none. Some fucking town unity we got here (Not! NIIIIGHTROOOOOUGH!!!?!)
Every place else I know of: FUCK OFF! Take a seat and tip your hats to Nitro, West fucking Virginia. Just the name alone…

Bristol Palin not sitting on my face: Dismissed.

Oh Bristol. Bristol, my sweet Bristol. Look at you. You’re a fox. You’re well-bred, totally eighteen, have totally rocking tits, crazy life experience AND conviction. Kudos to you! You tell ‘em! Don’t let them make the same mistake(s) you’ve made in your young life. I wonder what your scars look like…
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