Centipede Hurtz My Ears


They turned me down, those cult freaks! I slaved for hours on end, tweaking my resume and cover letter. Then I sent them to Animal Collective, requesting to join their profitable business venture as a “fat cat.” You know, someone who could take their cult to the next level with loads of money and fancy feast gatherings to satisfy their tycoon leaders. The days of Charles Manson cults are over. You gotta take control with dirty money and crony capitalism. The mafia is IN.

Those Animals didn’t even entertain my professional request to join their Collective. They sent me back a generic letter, thanking me for my interest in their “music” and enclosed a free CD. I was thoroughly insulted and vomited profusely. It’s like they didn’t even consider my resume and cover letter, which I spent countless hours pawndering. HISSSSSSSSS!

I’m certain they turned me down because they already have an animal in the band with black and white colored features: THAT DAMN PANDA! Why are they not extinct yet? Only the most retarded of animals would snap a stick off of a tree and call it lunch. Pandas are the clowns of the bear community. Not the kid’s birthday clowns. The even creepier clowns…the god-forsaken Juggalos.

After watching the video for “Today’s Supernatural” I said in my head “Hey juggalo! Why are you hanging out in the middle of the desert? There’s no water here, dumb dumb. And you’re too busy riding a go-cart and playing Jimmy Buffet’s version of the Twisted Metal soundtrack.” Also, how is the juggalo’s makeup not running down its sad clown face like My Chemical Romance tears on a sweaty Sahara day?

Let’s talk about the album, cause I gave it a chance, as opposed to the chance that the collective DIDN’T give me. The first thing that enters my kitton ears when I listen is the “creative stutter.” I don’t think it’s creative, but they seem to. This isn’t the stutter that Rainman uses before he does computer-speed math in his head. Nor is it the stutter that Phil Collins used when he wrote about his studio. This is the hiccupy stutter that infects me before I vomit. Literally, I do this three times a day. My behavior is personified in the song “Today’s Supernatural,” but I don’t call it “music.” It’s a horrible organized noise army that reminds me of my worst tendencies. Their last album, meowy water post paw-vilion was bearable, but this album is panda-bearable, and by that I mean TERRIBLE.

Also, jocks are not suddenly cool because they have relocated to the moon. The first track “Moonjock” sounds like a panda slurping, gargling and spitting out mouthwash in space and then getting sucked into a black hole of pig snorts. I guess the black hole miraculously transformed the panda into a juggalo and sent it to the desert, where it just happened to find go-carts. Mario Kart creators are probably scratching their confused heads somewhere.

It sounds like the Collective did all the wrong drugs when they made this album. I mean, I like to huff some catnip every now and again, but you don’t see me thinking that a bird-chirping loop effect is acceptable background noise, do you? No, you don’t. Birds are annoying. And so are pandas.

This is my impression of a panda…

Excited About the New Bassnectar Album? Well Meatball Isn’t…

The Mexican family of five wouldn’t stop yelling at me, and I would’ve responded promptly, except I don’t speak Spanish. But from what I gathered, “caca” means shit food. But the customer’s not always right, right? My gluttonous eyes were constantly wandering, and they couldn’t help but fixate themselves on customers’ fish taco orders. This was impeding my ability to serve the masses. Despite the fact that this insult was indiscernible to my meow-friendly ears, I got the picture.  At that moment, I was ready to quit my serving job at Flaco Taco, when suddenly……

I awoke from my feline slumber. “Thank Cleopatra” I said. “I never wanted to learn Spanish anyway. “  I dragged my lazy paws towards the fancy feast in my milk bowl and gobbled away. As I was eating, I thought, “What caused me to have a horrible nightmare like that? I’m too lazy to leave the house, let alone, get a job. If all hell broke loose and I was down to one last cat life, I suppose I would at least be qualified to serve as a cocktail waitress at Donald Trump’s Comedy Central Roast. In an attempt to rectify my nightmare, I decided the only thing to do was to hunt my own bass and make my own fish tacos so that I wouldn’t be bossed around by the whiners and diners.

But I wasn’t really going to do this, I was only going to dream about it. So I decided to put on music, which I thought was appropriate for the task at hand. I pawed at the meow-pod for an eternity before settling on Bassnectar. What is better than the autumn-fresh nectar found between the gills in the farthest nether region of a bass?  Does there exist a better soundtrack for savage hunting and crass assembly of tacos? 

I soon realized that sleep was impossible during this barrage of elephant stomps and earthquake shakes. I felt as though every clock in the house was going cuckoo.  The fire alarm was going off like Cheech and Chong left 40,000 cat-nip brownies in the oven.  Who decided to remix shitty ringtones and use them as beats for mediocre afro rhymes?  After listening to Laughter Crescendo, I felt like one of the hyenas laughing at Simba, from the Lion King, as he crawled into the wild, or in the same vein, smelly hipsters crawling their way back to the dance floor after their glow sticks are spent and they’re way too drunk to function. Video game music creators would be sad because unlike their video games, this music has no plot apart from the “wobble.” My brain feels like someone put it in a microwave and it exploded and the radiation came out of my mouth. This is what it looked like.


Foster the Fuckers

I decided to sleep in until 2 pm today instead of 1.  I walked out to the patio to catch the hottest rays of the sun and some more zzz’s, because I can never really get enough booty sleep!  I extended my limbs and paws as much as I kittonly could, but this act made me soooo exhausted, I found myself in need of another nap.  Suddenly, my catnap was decimated by a howling of whistles inside.  I am nobody’s dog, and I refuse to acknowledge “the whistler.”

As I strolled inside, I noticed the name of the band:  Foster the People.  Who came up with that?  People don’t need to be fostered… but kittons do!  People need to go to church, buy kitton food, and read educational magazines.  Maybe they could foster the changeover of my litter box or the salmon to swim upstream in the direction of my mouth.  Maybe they could foster out the term “jazz cats”. I don’t like jazz; no cats do!  A lounge full of cats would never involve jazz music and my idea of a classy cocktail is a milk martini with a side of sour cream.

But a classy cocktail won’t change the world! That’s all these popular indies wanna do these days, is change the world. When the song “Pumped Up Kicks” came on, time seemed to stand still, as if no one had any desire to pay their bills and get a real job. They just want to watch Dane Cook, drink beer and have sex. I’ll admit, I don’t get out too often. I’m properly house broken, I know where to pee and poo, and I’m happy enough if I can kill a fly with my bare paws in my sleep (which can be exhausting).  The indie poppers whistle as if their lives depended on it. But they’re just whistling, just passing the time with melody like a bunch of lazy kittons high on meow-ijuanah.

Speaking of passing the time, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m 77 in cat years. I’ve  heard Oracular Craptacular by that Management band. “Pumped-Up Kicks” isn’t scratching any new posts… I’m guessing Foster the People got Vampire Weekend’s Self-Titled album for Christmas? Ripping off two artists is a way to mask your lack of originality, kinda like two kinds of shit in the litter box mixing together to coalesce one foul smell. Well anyways, I DO give a fuck about new ideas, horchata, and an oxford comma. But I don’t give a fuck about 12-year-old anti-war commercial jingle writers stuck in 22-year-olds’ bodies, or reading their so-called rum diaries. These foster fuckers might as well songify their hits to allow us to laugh with them, and not at them.

Just when I thought I had heard the worst, the love song “I Would Do Anything For You” came on, with lyrics like “never wanna stand up for myself” and “never wanna get in the way”.  I just wanna say: “Quit being such a pussy.” I’ve not sounded that weak since my owner left me for five days with a bowl of water, a single can of tuna, and Rick Astley’s Greatest Hits.  But when the chorus of the song sounded off with, “Ooh la la, I’ve fallen in love, and it’s better this time than ever before”, I felt something rumble in my stomach. I felt like I had to throw up. So I did…

Hello interwebs, I am Meatball. I currently rest my paws in Music City, (Nashville) Tennessee. My owner is one of those “hipster types” who pretends to listen to music that I know isn’t actually good. When I’m not eating or being chased by that apartment terrorist, something known as a “vacuum”, I’m trying to figure out what it is you humans find so enjoyable in that noise that disturbs my constant cat naps.

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