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Thursday, March 02, 2006
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 REPUBLICAN AND DEMOCRAT, CHRISTIAN, MUSLIM AND JEW, CAN WE ALL AGREE THAT SCOTT STAPP MUST DIE?
Way back when I had a life worth living, I spent a good deal of my time flying to and from California. Quite frankly, it wasn't as "hard, hard, hard as it seems." Amazingly, this did nothing to mitigate my distaste for Robert Plant.
To be fair to feather in a circle boy, there was one trip that wasn't just as hard, hard, hard as it seemed, it was a downright pain in the ass. I'd much sooner have a boil lanced from the head of my cock with a junkie hustler's homemade works by someone who lives in a Detroit alley than ever have to go through something like that again.
Most of my trips went through Pittsburgh International Airport, which is a joy that I've written about before. On this trip, my stop-over was in Minneapolis-St. Paul. I thought this was cool, as it was on the Thanksgiving Day just after 9/11. Now, don't know how many of you can remember all the way back to the fall of 2001, but commercial aviation wasn't exactly the preferred method of travel. Something about jetliners going into skyscrapers. Perhaps you heard about it. Very few people were flying that fall. And since I hate people, I figured it would be the best day ever. That part I was right about. Not only was the flight dirt cheap, I was pretty much the only person on the plane.
It was in Minneapolis where things went south. You see, I've always been wary of Minneapolis because of the paucity of cool things that have come out of there. Other than Bob Dylan, Prince, Morris Day, Husker Du and the Replacements, nothing interesting or fun has ever happened in Minnesota. When Harold fucking Stassen, a Nazi sympathizer like Charles Lindberg and a wrestler with an inability to shut up are symbols of pride, that's a pretty good sign that a place should be levelled and it's populace left to die of asshole cancer. I've always feared Minnesota and the unpredictable swings between boredom and horror that it would bring.
It just so happened that I was more prescient about Minneapolis than I suspected. As soon as I landed in the Charles Lindberg Terminal (really. No kidding), I knew that I was in trouble. Deep, terrifying trouble.
As soon as I get off of a plane, there are two things I want to do, punch someone in the crotch and have a cigarette. Well, after 9/11, airports were chock full of National Guard. And not the George Bush kind of National Guard where you didn't have to show up much, either. The real kind with guns and really serious expressions on their faces, so crotch punching was pretty much out of the question. That left smoking, so I went to my favorite of all places, the bar.
Small problem. The slackjawed bartender wouldn't let me smoke, saying something about "state law", or some other such nonsense. Actually, I heard the same nonsense a lot in California, but California is populated with liberal idiot cocksuckers who think that smoking causes pedophelia. That's what makes them stupid. Liberalism causes pedophelia, everyone knows that. Just ask Rick Santorum.
 Not being able to smoke, I decided on getting blindingly drunk, which I figured might make Minnesota tolerable. No dice. The hillbilly shithead behind the bar laughed at my pretty Canadian credit card. Then he laughed at my pretty Canadian money. Luckily, the bar between us saved him from a sound throttling and a near-certain death. Plus, there was still the ATM machines that were virtually everywhere.
I was foiled yet again. The ATM's coding wasn't synched to either my credit or bank cards. I have hundreds of dollars, yet I couldn't access any of it in this godforsaken airport. As much as I hated San Fransisco International, at least I could get money and (sometimes) booze there. I was now doomed to suffer through Minneapolis sober and in the throes of a nictotine jones. It should go without saying that I was reconsidering my earlier premise of not getting shot by the National Guard. Since I had history's most loving girlfriend heading to San Fransisco to meet me, that really wasn't an option. While she always wanted to see me on CNN, I doubt that would be her preferred way of it happening, even if a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song might be written about it the ugly incident later
It was at that point that I gave up atheism, recognized that there was indeed a God and He had created the state of Minnesota as instrument through which to fuck me. Remarkable foresight on His part, I must admit.
I then journeyed to the departure lounge where I could sit through the long wait for my fate taking comfort in the fact that things couldn't get worse. They did. There were several televisions blaring whatever NFL game is played on Thanksgiving Day. As you know, I hate any sport that isn't Foxy Boxing or doesn't involve using Chinese throwing stars on infants and Democrats. But I have a particular hard on for football. It simply isn't violent enough and the players wear too much padding, proving to me that football players are oversized little girls.
At least, I thought, half-time would be filled with scantily clad ladies to soothe the burning hatred in my black little heart. Of course, these were the halcyion days before we all became so well acquainted with Janet Jackson's right tit. With that, I retreated to the men's room where I could wait out the second quarter and weep like a woman undisturbed.
It was not to be. Upon returning to the lounge, I was confronted with a sight that not even the precious triazolam and halothane that the damnable US Customs and Immigration "Service" would not allow me to enter "the land of the free" with could soothe. I was confronted with the half time "entertainment."
 It was Creed.
Like right thinking folk everywhere, I despised Creed from the second I saw them. Unlike most bands, I hated them even more than I detested their fans. Their music is derivative Pearl Jam nonsense, yet even more annoying - if such a thing is even possible. Sensible people have the same reaction to a Creed song that they would after shotgunning four gallons of ipecac. Some might point out that Creed had a large and devoted following. I would remind them that Adolf Hitler did as well. And at least Hitler built the autobahn and could go on stage without boring the fuck out of everyone.
The focus of everyone's attention was also the focus of my contempt, vocalist Scott Stapp. One could argue that a talentless shill like Stapp should be beneath my contempt, but when hated and bile are all that one has left to live for, one embraces it like the memory lost lover. It is something that makes one whole. When someone like me agrees with a valueless lowlife like Fred Durst about Stapp, I know that I have reached an almost cosmic truth. Like most reasonable people, even his first wife couldn't resist the urge to hit Scott Stapp in the face with a blunt object.
Stapp comes across like an inbred Jim Morrison, lacking only the charisma, cool songs and good grace to die in a bathtub that defined the erstwhile Lizard King. He carries himself as the reincarnation of Christ, which only inspires those with a deep appreciaciation of biblical study and Roman tradition to have him crucified at the earliest possibility. Only the sight of Scott Stapp whipped, beaten and nailed to his cross could have made that day in Minneapolis anything approaching bearable.
Once Stapp became aware of the deep loathing he inspires in everyone who isn't an idiot, he spiralled into vortex of stupid substance abuse and hollow suicidal thoughts, which indicates that he might actually have a conscience. Unfortunately for him - but fortunately for everyone else - Stapp survived to amuse us all with his mindless, desperate failure of a life.
After getting kicked out of his own band, he released a solo album that was met with the critical and public acclaim normally reserved for the smell of burning human flesh. This was followed by an altercation with the equally useless 311 that would've been more efficently fought with chainsaws. Stapp then married another beauty queen who was seemingly unaware of the violence his presence inspires in the women who share his home. Stapp managed to shit on even this small modicum of happiness by getting arrested for public drunkenness en route to his honeymoon the very next day.
This was famously followed by the leak of a fuck tape made by Stapp and repulsive Michigan native Kid Rock in 1999. One might think that I would be either depressed or enraged by such a development. One would be wrong. Instead, I rejoice in it. I revel in it for three reasons. Firstly, it humilates Scott Stapp and further fucks with his miserable life. Secondly, it proves beyond any doubt that there is at least one person with even less sexual appeal than myself and the former Bob Ritchie. Thirdly, I learned that there still exist women so lacking in morals, taste and common sense as to take Scott Stapp's putrid cock within their sundry body cavities. All of these things give me hope that I might someday be a good man. The only way that this could get better is if a tape of Stapp being sodomized by Scooter Libby comes out.
In an amusing return to his Kanye West / Jesus Christ pose, Stapp blames the release of the tape on a conspiracy. Whether said conspiracy is vast or right wing has thus far been left unsaid.
Scott Stapp thinks a recently released sex video showing him and Kid Rock with several strippers is meant to sabotage him.
"Obviously someone wants to hurt me and doesn't want me to be successful in my solo career."
(...)
"You don't want to say it's laughable, but it's just like, my God, there's so much stuff," he said. "Somebody does not like you and somebody wants you to fail."  Actually, who knew that Scott Stapp even had a solo career until his life became such a snuff film? I'm pretty sure that his wife didn't know he's had a solo album out. How can someone want you to fail if they don't even know you're trying?
If nothing else, I'll bet that cross is looking better and better to Scotty every day. Maybe he should move to Minnesota.
Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: They Hung Him on a Cross By: Nirvana. From: With the Lights Out
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