jazz, my azz
Hark! Can you hear the frapping sound of a thousand fart bubbles burbling through a brassy sphincter? Do you relish the herky-jerky dissonance of music so self-importantly complex that it murders essentials such as melody and rhythm? Does it make you feel classy to buy overpriced drinks and listen to meandering, four-hour spazzfests that are essentially the Grateful Dead in a suit and tie?
Since I have never felt like a ping-pong ball bouncing FOREVER in a locked room, I have never felt jazzy in my life. I'd rather drink jizz than listen to jazz. Hey, jazz—you can kiss my azz!
Doot-doot-doodle-a-doodle-a-doodle-a—STOP!
Worst of all is "jazz fusion," music tailor-made for two homos who've snorted too many poppers and have decided to shave each other's tushes.
If I only had five minutes to live, I'd dig up Miles Davis and strangle him.
