If I had a nickel for every time I heard that fucking hack quoting that cheesy-ass “Cucaracha” in the middle of his “Footprints” solo, playing two trumpets at the same time, one on either side of his mouth, making all the old farts and freshman girls in the park giggle and clap, I’d have enough money to buy every trumpet and ever flugelhorn in the world (because that’s right, it’s not two trumpets—it’s a flugelhorn and a trumpet), buy a gigantic smelter and melt them all down into brass, and then entomb that motherfucker in it like he was a gay Han Solo.
Watching that asshole play trumpets is like watching a woman “ooh” and “ahh” and try to have sex with a man with two dicks. She realizes very quickly that it’s an impractical and unsatisfactory arrangement, but the pornographer won’t let that hesitancy show. Cut that shot. Cut to the fake orgasm and the pasty hose-down.
Fuck your gimmicks! I am the ejaculator! It is my voice that counts! I leave my computer chair like I leave that park, ashamed that I have to share space and time with these idiots.
I want to film this fucking trumpeteer and put it up on YouTube so everyone will know how stupid he is. I’ll wait till their next set when he strikes up the “Cucaracha” line again. And sure enough when I take up my camera Señor Cucaracha’s big black guitar-playing buddy stands up from his seat to look menacingly in my direction. Yeah he’s got that nasty stink-eye. Yeah he’s trying to intimidate me. As if I’d be scared by a guitarist who plays a semi-acoustic hollow-body.
“No video recording.”
“Don’t worry about it. Keep playing. I want people to see how stupid you guys look.”
“No video recording.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you $20.”
He showed himself to be a $20 whore. But everybody has their price nowadays. Everybody will sell their dignity for their fifteen minutes of attention or that equivalent in money.
Everybody. Everyone. Even me. I’ll admit it. It’s merely a matter of demanding a respectable amount of money, or fame, in exchange for your lampoon. At that point you’re not selling your dignity, you’re accumulating interest on its investment.
I posted my video to YouTube and it got 1,000 likes in two days.
—Two trumpets! That’s two-bular!
—LOL! Two cool!
I’ve been changing my IP address and disliking that video everyday for the past week.
People have to understand their stupidity and the superiority of substance.
But then I realized I was thinking about it wrong: People are liking the video because it is stupid and allows them to mock and laugh scornfully. And that’s great because then the people in the video feel that they’re being liked and accepted when they’re really not! They don’t even know that they should be feeling shame!
When you post video of your pug trying to chew his way out of a Pikachu outfit, it is not his cuteness that we are laughing at—it is you and your stupidity! When you post video of your friend trying to hit himself in the testicles by rolling a bowling ball off a skateboard ramp, we like it because we hope he is now impotent. And all those videos of people alone in their rooms talking to their webcams, sharing their feelings, crying, saying useless controversial shit, reviewing things like fruit snacks and new Super Mario video games—we like you because we hope that you will always have nobody but your webcam to talk to!
And cats—all your fucking cat videos—we like those because they remind us that we’re human, and therefore self-conscious, smarter, stronger, and more beautiful than fucking house cats.
Fucking house cats.
I am the hater. Spread my word.