Americans Copying Shitty Music They Refuse to Buy

ecord companies were faced with a 10% drop in CD sales from 2000 to 2001, and are quick to point the finger squarely at internet music piracy and illegal CD copying. Now the awful songs and albums consumers refuse to buy are available to them for free elsewhere.

“It used to be someone would have to buy an album just to find out it was crap,� said recording industry lawyer Snig Partridge. “Now they spend hours downloading it, take one listen, and mutter they’re glad they didn’t buy it.

“That’s our money!� yelled Patridge, leaping across the desk and savagely attacking this commune reporter.

There is some validity to the maniacal lawyer’s complaints. A recent survey conducted found nearly 25% of respondents were downloading or making hardcopies of CDs they didn’t want to buy. Numerous reasons were cited, such as the expense of purchasing CDs, the ease and availability of pirating materials, the chic of bragging about burning or downloading something, the lack of new Beatles material, but most popular among the answers was “just don’wanna.�

Many record industry analysts are puzzled by the slow down in CD sales, given the height of artistry of popular music with acts such as Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Creed, Pink, Uncle Kracker, and No Doubt topping the charts.

“It’s obvious music is experiencing a renaissance,� remarked some dreadlocked teen at a music store, in a voice that didn’t sound at all sarcastic.

“I don’t get it,� said Marx Kapital Records CEO Fred Ingells. “People hear the single. They like the single. They hum the single. They don’t buy the album. Something’s not right here.�

In 2000, music product sales totaled $14.3 billion. A year later that amount had dropped catastrophically to $13.7 billion.

“$13.7 billion! How are we supposed to live on $13.7 billion?� shouted Snig Partridge, this time leaping out from behind a Volkswagen on the street and attacking this commune reporter long after our interview had finished.

Across the music industry, response from record company representatives has ranged from perturbed to dismayed.

“Y’all fuckin’ my money now, biatch,� growled A’ight Records President Tru Dat Williams, cocking a Glock and firing blindly out the window in a confessed effort to hit potential music pirates.

“What makes me sad is the poor artist,� said Ingells. “When you steal a CD by bootlegging it from a friend or downloading it from the internet, you’re stealing a dollar out of their pocket. A whole dollar, or considerably less if we’re talking just singles and EPs here.�

Several artists were contacted to hear their reaction to this matter, but instead of listening to the interview tapes we burned copies of them and sold them on eBay as bootleg interviews. Snig Partridge then leaped out of our filing cabinet, knocked this commune reporter unconscious and made off with all our unsold copies.

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New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.

Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.

This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere.

Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show.

After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable.

That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch.

Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out.

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Jim Henson, an unemployed sock factory worker with delusions that would make Mark David Chapman roll his eyes, titter, and run off to the closet to masturbate feverishly into a tea cozy, did not create the Muppets. Popular assumption is the asshole on that one. Nor did he even discover them, as several Kings of England before him had conferred with the strange beings on matters of state politics and interior decorating for hundreds of years. Rather, Henson's genius lay in using felt puppet totems to channel the beings from their Muppet-realm during hour-long televised séances that he would pass off as children's entertainment. How would America's parents feel if they knew the secret behind this children's television mainstay? It's a trick question, America doesn't have parents. It's a country, stupid.

Many parents would shrivel and dry up like a baked turnip to learn that they subjected their children to this brand of pagan daycare for years, parking their drooling tots in front of the one-eyed monster for hours of seemingly free babysitting. Of course, they'd crap out their own appendix if they knew that Mr. Rogers had to do his show to fulfill the community service portion of his probation. As much should have been obvious since he spent half the damn show changing clothes in order to dodge his parole officer.

Henson wasn't an ex-con himself, but he did have more issues than National Geographic. Regardless, he will always be remembered as a great American because he found a way to work through his demons and bring us all a dog that played the piano.

The real question is who in the hell was making these Muppets move, since back then they didn't have computer animation or midgets small enough to fit in a Gonzo suit. It wasn't until Chernobyl that this was possible. The evidence suggests that even Henson himself didn't know. He was primarily into the puppets, and some have suggested that his entire knowledge of the occult came from a supernatural joke book he found in his aunt's sock drawer. No one knows which joke it was that brought the Muppets to life, but my money's on:

Q. Why didn't the ghost have fun at the ball?

A. He didn't have any body to dance with.

That one's a classic.

Regardless of which joke it was that did the trick, before he knew it Henson's puppets were all possessed by former heads of state and card sharks who had got themselves on some kind of shit list in the afterlife where they always had to be on call in case somebody dug up a dusty old book of spells and read off an incantation in a fake English accent on a lark.

There are whole clubs of weird people who get together and debate over who each of the Muppets really was, but nobody can really ever say for sure. Though I challenge anyone to provide any compelling evidence that Winston Churchill wasn't the Swedish chef. It's just too perfect. And though some have argued that he's already been reincarnated as a diaper lining in dysentery country, I'll always believe that Hitler came back as Beaker. I mean, Christ, just look at the guy. They even have the same voice. I've watched some old documentary footage of Hitler and it's uncanny, "Meep-meep-meep-meep-meep."

It's shocking news for most of you, I know. But in the big picture it hardly matters, as kids still learned to count and that aliens are agreeable. Nobody got hurt, except for the days when Dr. Teeth had his pimp shirt on or that time Sweetums went apeshit and ate some of the singing pigs. But, all in all, a small price to pay for years of free babysitting, and it was still the most wholesome thing on television after the cast of Pinwheel found out about cocaine.

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