Tuesday, November 6, 2007

The Suffering



The Suffering, where an album of perceived shittiness is forced upon myself for the first time to find out how bad it really is. This week it's a trip to the Discotheque Lounge with The Pussy Cat Doll's PCD



Cee-Lo laughs through 'Don't Cha', the horns give it away, and i hope he made a lot of fucking money cause i had to listen to this for almost a year. This is the part where the girls get you warmed up, just a little aroused but you act like you don't know if it's going farther yet, though you know it does.

Wil.i.am crashes the party for 'Beep' and surprise! craftily beeps out all the references to physical body parts, cuss words, and lewd actions everyone came to the club to see. My dick shrivels a little bit while I go to get another ten dollar drink from the weird guy in the back.

Timbaland initiates a call and response for everyone to 'Wait a Minute' to pay attention to how his chick is treating him wrong, while she dances naked in front of everybody whining about how he ONLYwants her for her body ANDsoul. I'd excuse her contradicting herself if it wasn't for the leftover Black Eyed Peas track it's all on top of. She's the dark haired one to the left, and she's wearing a black thong shaped like a butterfly. She has an overly large, poorly executed tattoo on her thigh, and the guy behind me in sweatpants is making funny noises while she attempts to make her almost existant ass clap.

DJ Bumpyballs slows the tempo down a little bit. The latin chick on the right comes out in a teddy and tries to be sensual, but insists on awkwardly lip synching to the whole of 'Stickwitu' and it consumes so much of her being, she forgets to move all sexy like at all. Right about the time the hand clap breakdown starts we all agree to move it over to the Marine Room.

We spend $50 on 3 drinks to share amongst all of us. As we take our seats at our new locale, 'Buttons' starts up with a middle eastern tinge and the dudes in the front from Fort Gordon are noticeably twitching. The redhead all the way to the left comes out bellydancing, but there's large welts on her left tit, which is also happens to be almost twice the size of the other one. Another round of drinks please.

After her set, all the girls, including the ones from discotheque come out. They must run second shift here after their day job down the block. They rub on each other striking Charlie's Angel poses every now and then while the music pronounces how they 'Don't Need a Man'. No ring on the finger. They do it all on their own, and of course with the help of all the horny dudes in the audience coughing up cash. This continues over three minutes of canned horns and a string section as stale as the beer in our red solo cups.

The Blonde with the black eye comes out, gyrating her special bits to an early nineties disco rehash of 'Hot Stuff' wearing hot pants and a quickly removed jogging jacket. At this point, hearing the normal version of the song would make me more hot and bothered than seeing her pick up her keys without her hands while this track plays.

The lead chick comes out to wiggle and ask 'How Many Times, How Many Lies?' in a corset and garters. She waves her finger alot. Deception is on her mind, and you're getting drunk enough to think that if you console her, you can take her home. You are very, very wrong. She's still going home with the dude that's "been creeping", and the bills you toss at her during the Justin Timberlake-alike bridge towards the end are going to buy his ass an extra waffle at the waffle house tonight.

'Bite the Dust' starts up, and just when you think Beyonce herself has come for a one-off nudie performance to practice for her world tour, instead out hops the spritely one with the faux hawk. She can't dance, and the flapjacks she's wearing on her chest do nothing to convince me that her man could not be stolen by one of the other girls as she repetitiously informs us all. But she's got him, and they're in love, and Christina Aguilera cooing ensues while you start wondering what she looked like ten years prior.

The lead chick comes back out dressed like a newsie, with suspender straps covering her nip nips. 'Right Now' more horns kick in as she throws her hat off, whipping her hair around to the jazz flute sounds. Desi Arnez hits the big drum in the background right before some wierd dude starts snapping his fingers and singing some da-da-dums. This shit is stupid. We're all too drunk, and it's way too late to be putting up with this.

Just as we're getting up to leave, the volume jumps twice as loud with some hard rocking synthesizer. It hurts, physically and mentally, when all of a sudden you realize it's a version of 'Tainted Love' that's so sugary sweet there's no desperation left in the song and in a moment of clarity you know for certain that none of these girls are coming home with you. They never were.

As you start making your way out the door, they flick on the lights one by one and slide into a slinky bluesy jazz number as the send off for the night. Coulda been Jill Scott if she weighed 89lbs, and was missing a pinkie finger and a high school diploma. It's the only track of the night that resembles a bearable song, but all the girls are picking up their left over tips and the tone only adds to the depression sinking in knowing that you're going home alone again, and your too drunk to fuck even your own hand. As you pass out in the back of the car, you can still hear the tinkling piano trailing off in the background, and though you can't remember a single thing you heard all night, that one chick with the dark hair keeps popping up in your alcohol fueled dreams.

3 comments:

dRchunkerton said...

the only thing more entertaining than your post- and it was highy amusing- was the google add for 360 degrees of exciting music....those silly algorithms and their complete misunderstanding of irony and desperation.

i think that all bad music could be broken down into agusta metaphors. maybe that's just because once you hear anything while watching a totally nude girl who has no buisness being even in halter top slime her way down a pole, you die a little inside. if that's the curse of the garden city, so be it; it's given me something more inside, some sort of indefinable lust for dirt and cigarette smoke and creepy eldery black men.

Rickles said...

I'm not sure what this had to do with the music, however it did remind me of every strip club I've been to. where usually I'm so uncomfortable that i use all my money for shots and liquor n the first half hour. And then spend the rest of the night borrowing money from mike V to pay the strippers to go away. also their's a lot of covering my face and mouth in disgust. Apparently this is what i miss when my face is covered. Good Job sir

Joe Torre said...

i liked this cd...it's got some catchy tunes.

steve holt