Hoes, perverts, schlongs, dongs, dildi, dildae, cancerous plagues on the buttocks of our fine society, scholars and mongaloids, priests and little boys, sisters and cousins: welcome to the post Christmas, pre newyear hangover week that most of you sad sacks with jobs have been coerced into working through. One of the shittiest weeks in the whole year, especially if the person you’d like to be fucking is having their period, or you’re dying or you’ve got crabs or a prison sentence to start or uh…you get the idea, but even if you got great stuff for Christmas and no short supply of non-bleeding holes to bang, this week there’s nothing to do but sit around and stew in the putrid wafting stench of holiday farts, how much you hate your family and air travel and wait for new years eve and the subsequent herpes/abortion/court date that follows a night of unbridled revelry. What a time.
Of course, I don’t have any of these issues, because I’m dick deep in the joy of watching some small children discover the magic of the holidays. There’s a lot of pants shitting due to not wanting to move away from the Thomas the Train set and quite a bit of inter-toddler violence around the tree. Also there’s no room in any suitcase because all sorts of various dinosaur covered things are taking up all the space where my underpants used to go.
Yup. It’s a great scene. Plus, I got a nettie pot, a sterling butt plug, electric cheese grater and six pairs of crotchless edible panties. They’re weird. They’re made in Indochina and they’re kind of the same material as fruit roll ups, but they taste a little like beef bullion. I shoulda been specific and asked for the ones that are made in france and taste like buttercream and olives, but I guess I didn’t REALLY care, and besides, it’s about to be a new year and what better way to kick it off than to rinse that frosting martini taste out of my mouth and party with the scent of powdered beef on my junk.
So, I’ve promised the best of the year list here in this space: my annual “it’s the end of the year as we know it” where I slaughter such sacred cows as the notion that you can’t talk about rimjobs during the holiday season and end of the year lists in general. Also, I make up a lot of ‘edgy’ sounding things so I can seem out there and wild. It’s one part routine, one part endless death march and one part whimsical imparting of taste. Just like every good year end list.
This year, I’ve been paying more attention than usual to year end lists. This is odd for a few reasons: 1) I didn’t do anything this year that’s gonna make any year end lists and 2) I didn’t listen to hardly any new music, so I pretty much have no fucking idea where my opinions stack up to all these various self-important turds who bestow these lists on the rest of us, and let’s be frank: these lists are the equivalent of a traffic cop giving someone a ticket for jaywalking. It’s a tiny little smug display of power that serves no purpose other than to flout the might of an otherwise pathetic and disrespected station in life.
The “Best Albums/Books of the year as decided by [random douche from some publication]” (very different than ‘best picture’ which is a corporate dick-suckathon with very little regard for quality) is quite simply, at its most altruistic, some nerd ranking art that he thinks is cool in the name of getting the artists on his list a wider audience. This happens somewhere in the neighborhood of 1% of the time.
More often than not, however, year end lists are a showplace for petty vendettas, elitist snobbery, ironic chuckling and in the case of a publication that has actual readership and even a tad of influence, these lists become the battlegrounds on which the dorky snobs with bylines wage their wars against the other, more bitter dorky snobs without bylines, the weaponry being an arbitrary list that cements, for Spin, Pitchfork, Punknews or whatever, certain records as better than others in some sort of weird time capsule. I’ve actually been reading tweets (I know…sad shit indeed) and articles where ‘music journalists’ delight in discussing how much their year end lists are going to piss off the readership of their particular publications. This seems to be common among journalists in various and extremely different rags. That’s weird. That’s weird for 2 reasons:
1) it’s weird that someone writing a list altruistically would be happy to upset the very readership that they should be trying to cultivate. That means that the motives are suspect as shit, frankly. What’s the year end list for, if not to be something fun to read? What’s the endgame if it’s intended to piss people off? Well, that’s easy: it’s dick thumping, and nothing more.
2) it’s impossible that someone should get pissed off about someone else’s opinion. It’s clearly not wrong. Opinions are, by definition the product of a single mind or group, so if you’re reading a list that’s horribly different than your own idea of the top records/books of the year, well, no shit. Someone else wrote it. Getting angry about it is the equivalent of getting mad of your buddy liking pickles on his burgers when you don’t.
The reason that these lists make people so angry and defensive is that they’re the battleground, as I said before, of jealousy (of someone having a popular platform for their opinion) versus smug superiority with almost no basis in reality.
So, enjoy your dumb lists, asshole journalists and dirty diapered snobs from the unwashed hordes. I’m off to the AVN’s! That’s a fucking year end award ceremony I can get behind (heyooo!)