Mind Your Own God Damn Business

I’m a worrier.

It’s just what I do. If there’s a way that a situation can be viewed in a negative light, I find a way to make it happen. It’s just how I am.

As I’m sure you know, I’m nearly 30, don’t have a real job, make about as much money as the average pan-handler and am single – I have no idea when the last time was that I had sex.

So, naturally, I spend a lot of time worrying about what my kids will be like.

You'd better look twice when you see me rolling up in this ride...because I can't stop it and I'll kill us both.

I’m also kind of a moron. I like to fixate on the little things that don’t matter. If you give me a car with severed brake lines, I will worry like crazy until I have spent as much time and money as it takes to paint some badass flames on the side of the car and get some sweet rims for it. An hour after I finish up, I’ll take it out for a test drive with one of my friends and roll the car into a ditch to avoid getting into an accident because the brakes don’t work. We’ll crawl out of the car and have the following conversation:

Friend (Examining the upside-down-in-the-middle-of-a-ditch car): Holy fuck, dude! No wonder we crashed! The brake lines are cut.

Me: What? Oh. Yeah.

Friend: …you knew already?

Me: Yeah, the guy who gave me the car told me that the brakes were fucked up… damn, those flames look really good!

Friend: You knew that the brake lines were severed, and you took the car out on a joyride anyway?

Me: Yeah.

Friend: Do you think that maybe you should have spent a little less time painting the car and fixed the fucking break lines before taking it out for a spin and almost killing us both?

Me: Probably. I mean, what you’re saying makes a lot of sense…

Friend: …and?

Me: And look at those fucking rims! The car’s upside down, and they’re still spinning like the car is moving, but it’s not! Holy shit those things are sweet!

I’ve never had that exact scenario play out, but it’s a much more accurate representation of my thought process than I would like to admit.

So, naturally, when I am sitting, old, balding and single, worrying about my unborn (and unconceived) children, I wonder what music they will listen to in order to piss me off.

There are plenty of things that could go wrong with my children (assuming that I ever actually have any); they could be born with some sort of physical handicap. They could be autistic. They could be bipolar. They could get addicted to drugs. They could be sociopaths. They could go to jail.

"You have exactly five seconds to explain to me why you're on webcam listening to Creed before I start chasing you around the house with a belt!"

Nonetheless, my primary concern is what music they’ll listen to. Every kid has to pick music to listen to that their parents will hate in order to establish a unique identity. When I was in 8th and 9th grade, a lot of my friends started shitting their pants over these awesome old rock bands they’d found like Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix. I thought they were okay, but my Dad had loved them, so I was only half-heartedly into them, mostly because I wanted to fit in. Some of my other friends decided oldies were really cool. Both of my parents love oldies, and I clocked seven or eight trillion hours of listening to the oldies station growing up as a result. Needless to say, I hate oldies.

My parents didn’t like metal, though. It’s a good thing, too, because I love metal. The rest is history. Now, everyone that knows me wishes that I would maybe shut the fuck up about metal and talk about something else once and a while, or stop listening to little kid’s music. Sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame my parents.

So what will my kids listen to in order to fuck with me? I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I’ll find offensive enough for them to really rock out to. Certainly not metal. I don’t know if you know this about me, because you might not have talked to me in the last 20 years or read the last paragraph of this blog post, but I love metal (although I have toyed with the idea of pretending that I hate it so my kids will get into it and find all of the good stuff for me – “What is this racket, young man?! I come home from a long day of work, and what’s waiting for me? Double bass drums, guitars tuned so low that the strings are touching the floor and breakdowns so hard that they might damage the foundation of the house!!! Look at me! I dislike this music so much that I’m tenting in my pants in disappointment! Whatever this garbage is, make no mistake – I do not think that it’s fucking awesome! The only way you could piss me off more would be if you found something even harder, you rebellious little scamp! Turn this off before I start crying blood!”

It could work. That’s all I’m saying.)

Fast forward to last month.

Brokencyde released their first full-length album of their own special brand of music called “Screamo Crunk”. I’d listened to a few of their songs before their album came out, gotten a chuckle out of them and then forgotten about it. Every review I’ve read of their album pans the hell out of it, so naturally I had to hear the whole thing.

It’s fucking bad.

Like, “Insane Clown Posse sounds awesome after listening to it” bad.

That wasn’t a joke. I’m totally serious. Here, try it:

SEE!? I’m totally right about this!

Brokencyde is THAT bad. It’s like having someone take a dump in your ears.

(Also, look at those sweet-ass tables! Atkins showed me how to do that. Thanks for helping me give the blog that touch of class that it’s been lacking, you magnificent bastard.)

The good news about this is that now I know what my kids can listen to so they can rebel! Put up a few posters of the band, blast their music while they write shitty teenage poetry in their notebook and call it a done deal. Granted, even if I got a girl pregnant today, it would be a good 14 years before I had a teenager, and nobody is going to be listening to Brokencyde in one year, much less fourteen, but at least I have some idea of what to expect.

That’s one less thing to worry about.

Now, I can finally focus on panicking about really important things. Next on my list: freaking out about where I would come up with the money to pay for fuel if I owned a private jet. Those things cost a fortune to maintain!

See you Wednesday.