the things mom warned me about
From the day she shat me out of her snatch until the moment she coughed up the death rattle, my mother didn't teach me a thing about the art of living. She walked this earth devoid of wisdom or taste. In fact, since her tastes were so askew that she thought Claude Akins was a sexy man and Shelley Long was a hip, sassy gal, I learned to hate the things she loved and cherish the things she despised. When she warned me that sex and drugs were bad, I knew they couldn't be as horrid as five minutes spent in her presence.
I've transferred this principle from my dear ol' dead mom to the professional ass-fleas called "critics." The things they snortingly dismiss as worthless usually wind up close to my heart. Whether it was punk rock, rap, or Howard Stern, I took their negative cues and investigated for myself. Their condemnation was all the endorsement I needed. And after a decade or two, the critics always come around, long after I've tired of what they were too dim to appreciate in the first place.
