5 - Review Of A Jizzbuckets Album - Butt-Fucking Disco Superstar
After five years we were all hoping, but let’s face it, dreams do not come true. Yes, sadly enough, The Jizzbuckets have released a new album (yes, I thought they were dead too) and I’m left wondering what viscously evil karmic sin I have committed that entails the assignment of reviewing a Jizzbucket album.
The latest offering from the new wave punk disco “fartists” is perhaps beyond all description. Where do you begin? Just how do you describe the biggest piece of shit to have ever spawned from the monolith that is the music industry?
Perhaps with the obligatory question of how the fuck was this made? I mean, which coke-fucked record company exec committed such a scandalous act that he was blackmailed into releasing this piece of crap. You also have to wonder which producer has metaphorically jumped off the cliff and ended his career by agreeing to have this album recorded. Well, whoever he is, at least they were smart enough not to put their name on the cover. That is assuming that The Jizzbuckets used a producer, because you could be forgiven for thinking that they didn’t use a producer, let alone a studio, instruments or recording equipment and we all know that this isn’t possible because The Jizzbuckets can’t fucking manage a walkman let alone a mixing desk. Not to mention how many heavily drugged artists stooped so low as to agree to play on the album. I mean, even while this is complete an utter fucking shit, you can still make out the odd completely out of tune chord - something that The Jizzbuckets have no concept of. Listening to Butt-Fucking Disco Superstar, you could be mistaken for thinking that what you hear is a literal translation of one of J’s drug-fuelled introspective nightmares that have somehow metamorphosed itself onto a CD. However, by doing that you make the fatal mistake of almost believing that The Jizzbuckets have talent and that there is some depth to this recording... No, Butt-Fucking Disco Superstar is as if The Jizzbuckets have taken an old Vanilla Ice album, played it backwards and recorded it with a shitty old tape deck, sitting somewhere in their backyard. This theory does makes sense, once you realise that secret sound is in fact some drunk Jizzfucker who is masturbating his dog as some tasteless prank. The fact that The Jizzbuckets exist is of no real concern. What is of concern is the new super-low that the music industry has fallen to. Yeah, a lot of music is really, really crap, but that pales into insignificance to how much of an aberration The Jizzbuckets really are. With most music you can generally find something at some level upon which the music is redeeming, but with The Jizzbuckets this is quite frankly not an option. Let’s make this clear. Any person who buys this album is a fuckhead. You would not even buy this to inflict on your worst enemies - that would be immoral. Butt-Fucking Disco Superstar would be the worst piece of music ever released if it weren’t for J’s solo album, ‘The Sounds of Masturbation and Poetry’ which features the horrific sounds of J masturbating, but oddly enough, no poetry. Perhaps I am being too hard on the boys (“scum” is a better word), because at least this time there were no unintentional spelling mistakes on the album cover.
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J’s eyes rolled back into his head, drool pouring from his mouth. He spat on his hands and kept going, pushing through the friction. His belt buckle was around his knees, clanking noisily. He was grabbing his ball sack, stopping only to turn a page. He was about to blow his load like a madman when the guy at the counter shouted: “Hey, are you going to buy that?” J couldn’t come. He was now too distracted. He pushed the old woman in the store clutching ‘Old Folks Monthly’ aside and went to the hockey stick section of the newsagency. He drew up his pants and chose the stick that smelt the most like a whisky-riddled Arab. Then, with a rush of semen through his loins, J felt an overpowering feeling of pure evil. He went searching for someone to persecute. There was a man that he loathed and despised. His name was Germy. That particular central hatred-attracting unit was a chap J had been communicating with on Cybermail??for quite some time and he had became agitated by the man’s attitude towards the banter they sometimes shared. J would often ask him long, drawn out and insightful questions and he (Germy, as he was named by his adoptive Greek guardians) would reply with shallow one-word answers that would infuriate J and make him want to rip Germy’s sinewy, hook-nose Mr Squiggle body apart. What upset him the most was that Germy had once referred to him as “the son of horse.” J would never forget this blight upon his respectability. It cut him to the core. It would only take a few minutes to get to next Cybermail? booth in the city, chuck in a couple of tokens and log on. Cybermail? booths were usually piss stinking little cubicles you could find at bus stations. Winos, perverts and pros hung out at these sorts of places and gave you the long greasy look of a heart eaten black by the cancer of corruption. J dropped a token into the slot and logged on. He received a mysterious e-mail from a sender known only as “Casual.” J was encouraged to seek out Germy, for it would bring great fortune to the universe. The message contained what was possibly the best advice that J had ever received. Hopefully he could find the moron’s address through hacking and finally get to meet him face to face and ask him why he was such a fucking bowel movement. And then hack him. Opening another e-mail, he found a message from an old acquaintance, Never Turets. Never apparently had some information to sell regarding Germy. He had named a bar downtown, filled with cushions and hookahs, as a rendezvous point. J tried to obtain Germy’s address from the Cybermail? directory but could only come up with the name “MacBeth” as to his whereabouts.
Never was a bucolic violin player from the bleak hill of Blackheath. He coughed incessantly over the drink J had bought him, splattering green phlegm over the worn veneer surface of the table. After they had dealt with the formalities of catching up, J asked Never what he knew of Germy. His enquiry elicited a response of green-flecked dialogue. It seemed that Never regarded himself as a master of the black sciences and had Germy recommended to him as a potential sacrificial subject. “The perfect victim,” Never mumbled over and over in a ceaseless mantra. J bought another drink for Never, who had no man to quell his stifling cough. He sank the drink quicker than Natalie Wood in cement boots. Though J was sure that Never knew the whereabouts of Germy, he was not even remotely close to imparting that particular information, preferring to ramble on about the “good old days” when you could afford a good whore to mutilate vaginally and were free to eat the faeces of others. The more drunk Never became the less interested he was in talking about Germy and his own rituals, though he did speak in a roundabout way of secret messages implanted on records and he added that perhaps J’s search may come to fruition if he found a particular album that had certain details pertaining to Germy. Perhaps an address. There was a store that held such goods – Tony’s Emporium. It might be an album by his own band. Or Freudian Slit. J and Never departed the bar and set off in the direction of Tony’s Emporium. They walked into Tony’s Emporium, a dingy little store with a smell of drying raincoats ever present. Never, hacking cough hacking, followed close behind, hocking small pools of green phlegm so thick and gelatinous that a knife could not part it. The counter had a shitty nostalgic feel about it. An old fashioned G.J. Coles scanner buzzed at one end whilst ancient swap cards, guns, comics, pipes and rings littered the shelves within. Behind the counter stood Tony, a jovial transvestite who looked alarmingly like Gary Sweet. Rumour had it that his voracious appetite had forced him to go into professional gerbil farming. J asked him about the album Never had named. “Methylated Spiritualists!” cried Tony, “by the Freudian Slit! Ha!” J slowly pulled out his Luger. Never awoke from his congested reverie and looked up. “Wha...” and nothing more spilled from his mouth other than fine arterial spray as J shot Never in the back of the head. J was sick of Never. Amazingly, Never survived this vicious assault and started to crawl away to the nearest hospital. Tony looked cross as J sheathed his weapon. “What ‘ya go and do that for, you big silly? I’ll bet you’re not gonna clean that up!” complained Tony. “Got that right,” mumbled J. “Fuckin’ arsehole!” J screamed as he kicked the crawling form of Never, “What the fuck has Freudian Slit got to do with the price of Germy’s arse?” Tony came back with a scathing: “Nothing you fucking arsehole! Nothing at all if you wish to hide yourself from any culture at all!” This did not please J. “Listen to me, fuckstick. I don’t appreciate green shit like you hanging blue shit on perhaps the ninety-second best group of fanny prongers in the universe.” J looked at his gun: a big pink, four-inch thick sheath of sixteen-inch skin. He held in his hands and for the first time ever he understood just how powerful this thing actually was. He gently squeezed it. A white blob appeared on the end and fell to the ground. Without notice, a scene from ‘Sunbeam Does Saturn’ appeared in J’s mind and he was the star. Anyway, Tony, who was now feeling the effects of having half his cranium blown away was slowly reimbursing his head of its contents, shoving used toilet paper back in and holding it there with Blu-Tack he removed from a picture of Jemima Suckworthy with a watermelon lodged solidly in her mouth. J knew the significance of this. It was a sign from God. J looked closely at the surface of the watermelon. Closer inspection revealed details of tiny forests in its juicy valleys. It was a map. A minuscule sign announced the area of West Khlster. He was to forget the album (for now). He had some walking to do.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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