Listen up Army soldiers, this is Sarge and I want you to pay close attention to what our new resident shit kicker Mezro has to say!
He is the man with the anti-Hagar plan and from time to time we are going give him some room to vent, bitch and pretty much say whatever the hell he wants. So sit back and open your eyes wide as the Roth Army proudly presents Mezro...
Sammy Hagar: Put The Lotion In The Bucket Bitch!
So the puffy Mars marching, douche monkey who claimed he would never work with the rectal pizza brothers again has returned for one finalpayday. How predictable, how safe, how sanitized and how utterly uninspiring.
Set your phasers to stun, your tasers to numb and your mind on sheep. The "Summer of Dumb & Dumber" is about to commence at a half filled arena near you. Van Hagar fans (all 316 of them) around the globe are having meat spasms in their Wal-Mart panties. Welfare checks everywhere are being endorsed right on over to Ticketmaster; trolls are stirring from their piles of dung. Here they come, staggering down the street with frosted jeans, primitive hygiene, a Gomer Pyle under bite, questionable bed sores and cleft pallets from the tool shed gymnastics their inbred parents participated in. The dead have risen and Van Hagar wants your money suckers.
Where is Dave? 1: sitting high atop Mt. Olympus on a diamond encrusted bong David Lee Roth smiles as the sun hits his face. Wearing the classic six pack on one hand and EEAS, ALAE & DLR Band on the other he looks down from his place in entertainment immortality. But what’s this? Something mundane stirs on the horizon.
Sammy Roy Hagar ... you are a scab boy toy. A replacement bitch not fit to sit at the table of greatness. Claim jumper, tub thumper, dog humper, Forest Gumper who takes it in the dumper; you wandered into history and created blasphemy. Once your 15 "I Can’t Drive 55" minutes were up it should have been back to singing Huey Lewis covers at Medieval Times dressed as a grog wench. But you lucked out pork rind ass and do you show humility? No! Do you respect or even try to embrace the legacy that came before you? No! All you do is take cheap shots at the man who installed the musical ATM you tap and tap. For all the puffy attitude and blustery bravado, the proof is always in the pudding: "It’s About Time" blows infected nut steak. A one armed monkey with turrets syndrome and low hanging crawdads could have written a better song. More built up cheese than a Brazilian glory hole; lyrics so bad that George Lucas wouldn’t even use them as dialogue. How can one be so terminally deliousional to even think trash like this is on par with classic Van Halen? Don’t think your prematurely ejaculated string work has gone unnoticed Eddie Gimp; I’ll club your musical balls in with a hammer later senorita.
Where is Dave? 2: The dark fecal cloud forming, fermenting and swirling is a familiar sight to DLR. It is called Van Hagar. He has seen this type of messy disturbance before and knows just what to do. He smiles, sits back, takes a deep warming hit and stares at the phone: Edward will call ... he always does.
Whores always need to practice fleecing johns and the Van Hagar leg spreaders are no exception. They
recently rehearsed in front of a small group of pimps, hos and obese hookers to sharpen their Jurassic chops. 5150 time? Nope, more like 4 guys trying to pad their IRA time. Who are you soapy fucks kidding? This tour is nothing more than a glorified beer run for Ed, alimony relief for Al, extra cheese and pepperoni for Mikey and plenty of human growth hormone and trophy wife money for fat Sam.
Memo to the sheep in the cheap seats: it’s not about motivation or artistic expression. It all boils down to a smash and grab for quick bling. The saddest sight ever witnessed by music fans belonged to the images of an emaciated EVH struggling through dress rehearsal. I fully expected to see flies swarming around his mouth while maggot larvae exploded from hidden egg sacs deep within his peanut butter hatch. A death rattle and hum so painfully obvious; I could almost hear him ask for "more brains" through slurred speech. Heartbreaking to see destruction so complete from a man who once inspired all of us to play air guitar when no one was looking. Memo to Edward: food is solid, bowel movements are not liquid and Dave is your one true meal ticket.
Don’t think Spammy flew under the style radar unnoticed. A fat man dressed in all red is a mall Santa not a rock star! What sort of out of touch, prison bitch sashays across a stage in maternity wear and 3-dollar flip-flops? And that fucking Mexican hat! Did you score it blowing tranny cock in Tijuana on one of your AARP discount vacations?
Stop trying to make the world forget David Lee and just pull a Kenny Rogers/Mean Gene Okerlund: go home and run your fucking restaurants. Can you hear that sound Sam? The jalapeno poppers are calling you back to the deep fryer!
Where is Dave? 3: surfing the cosmic waves of perpetual coolness is a tough job. DLR hoists a swig of Jack Daniels and wipes his lips on a hundred dollar bill. From far below a sharp barking reaches his ears; time to feed my dog again. Lowering some bits to ground level a tiny, scrawny puppy greedily inhales the feast and wags his tail to show appreciation for his master. A look of contentment crosses Dave’s face. At least little Edward has eaten today.
Mezro 6/8/04
* The views brought to you by Mezro are opinions only (along with a healthy does of imagination, exhaustion and frustration) and do not necessarily reflect those of fans who love shitty, paint by numbers music. Sorry sheep. Don’t like it? Then go shear yourselves raw and cram an infected red head deep into your brown lagoon.
