Yet I do not know if there is a punishment fitting enough for Jeff Giles for sending me Live at Amway Arena by Rappy McRapperson. And while I will admit that I have not always lived my life according to Judeo-Christian ethics, I can not imagine what I could have done to had this inflicted upon me. OK, so I got him an album of classic rock covers made in 1971 by a hockey player. Is that really enough to turn me into the Job (not Gob) of Popdose?
Until now, I really had no idea who Rappy McRapperson was. All I know is that he contributed to Wing’s Stop The Nonsense album, and my apathy towards her brief ironic stardom (except when referenced here at Popdose) meant that I saw no need to delve into the catalog of her insipidly named associates.
Until that bearded, leprechaun-dancing fuckstick Jeff Giles intervened.
I got a brief taste of the horror of Live at Amway Arena before I was in the right frame of mind to listen to it. I have a smart playlist on my iPod for recently loaded music that I have yet to play. I was going through it while lying in bed one morning and, without warning, I heard artificial crowd noise and someone yelling, “AMWAY ARENAAAAAA! Are you ready to get your dick sucked by awesome songs?” I quickly turned off my iPod, making it the first time I have ever refused a blowjob. And yes, that includes my days as a Boy Scout.
So where does that leave us? A fake live album by a white rapper who, in the opening seconds, equates his music with fellatio. Joy. Oh, and have I mentioned that the songs have titles like, “Mom, I Gave You AIDS” and “Me and My Grandma Went to Prison Together?” Fun!
I have no problem with juvenile humor. Hell, it’s my stock-in-trade. But this isn’t tasteless, it’s pointless. It doesn’t even try to be shocking in the way that has made the Insane Clown Posse millionaires. It’s merely a litany of references to blowjobs, poop, sex, farts, Jesus, gay sex, gloryholes, Avril Lavigne, drug use, Grandma getting strip-searched, diarrhea, fanny packs, Justin Bieber, AIDS, absentee parenting, and probably a lot of other things that I’m overlooking because I couldn’t be bothered to pay closer attention. And just when you why he hasn’t said anything about genital warts yet, he comes through with something about crabs.
Maybe I’m being too hard on him (I said “hard on”). After all, this is for 10-12 year old middle class suburban white boys who haven’t quite figured out how to properly rebel against their parents, and when I was in seventh grade, my friends and I devoured the Truly Tasteless Jokes books as if it contained the wit of Oscar Wilde. Live At Amway Arena can possibly be seen as the modern, aural equivalent of that series, albeit with animal noises and Casio beats. But I’d like to think that if I picked up one of those books today I would at least find some of it funny (and some jokes would actually make sense to me now that I’ve, you know, had sex). This album, on the other hand, is a stupid, smirking pile of dogshit.
I would love nothing more than to give this as a gift to Jeff’s son when he turns 10. That would be the ultimate payback. However, that won’t happen for another six years, and I’m sure either old age, therapy or booze will have wiped this clear from my mind by then. Instead, I found a more immediate form of sonic revenge, one that attempts classiness in the same way that this attempts classlessness. Check your Inbox, fucker. Payback is on its way.