To Kill Bieber

I’d like to begin by saying that it’s not that I hate Justin Bieber, it’s more that I wish his parents had been pro-abortion or that they themselves had died before puberty.

Now I can already hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth from the scores of tasteless Bieber-ians but prithee, hear me out.

I don’t hate Bieber as a person (I couldn’t because he’s not human). It’s what he stands for that makes me spend countless nights sharpening my Oukapi.

Music, people. Music is the miracle, the most enthralling teacher and the greatest wonder.

While I can appreciate the genius of his marketing and PR team it’s music for whom I weep. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a bubble-gum popping sing-along ditty every now and then but when it’s the only options we have on radio and TV are Britney, “Fiddy”, Scherzinger, Parlatones and Bieber then woe is us.

Think of the children. Think of the babies. We have robbed them of a true appreciation for music – the craft, the expression the art.

When we grew up and when our parents were growing up there was the mind-numbing pop, disco etc. but on the radio you’d also hear the sounds of Motown, Stimela, Hugh, Jimi, Nina, The Cranberries, and Kurt Cobain amongst the easily digestible fodder of Macy Phakela, Kylie Minogue and Malume Piki-Piki and that weirdo who sang Scapman.

Even the Bee Gees wrote some of the most awesome disco tracks with great melodies, catchy but crafted instrumentals topped with well written lyrics like:

I ain’t no vision I’m the boy who loves you

Inside and out.

Backwards and forwards with my heart hanging out.

I love no other way

What are we gonna do if we lose that fire?

Sure beats “I’m a G6, I’m a, I’m a G6” right?

Let’s think about the kids. They have to know that there’s more to this music thing. They have to know that you don’t have to make booties drop when dropping an album. It’s totally feasible to have a club vibe to lyrics that are informed and politically, socially or religiously charged.

Bieber? Bieber? Yrrrrr I wish I were Christian so I could murder him on Saturday and be absolved of my sins on Sunday morning.

Mr. Pothead

A pickled Mr. Pothead poked a pre-pubescent pupil past the praying pew to peek at the priest popping pills into the pure, prayed upon wine. Peering round at peers and properly praying people – preoccupied with pious practice – Pothead pondered its unholy purpose. The pretentious priest, who remained prim and proper ‘mongst the preached-to parent populace, had a putrid practice with prayer-choir pupils and their petrified penises (pun purely by haps). At mass he’d pray, piping psalms pro piety and preached from Peter and Paul. But the Pontius Pilot prick played putrid games the pure pope would admire or abhor.