Coldplay Sucks

Does no one else see that Coldplay fucking sucks? Honestly, am I the only person who sees this? Am I the only person who heard “Clocks” the first time it was played on the radio and said, “oh wow, new U2…sounds pretty good.” How could you not listen to Coldplay and think they sound exactly like a U2 cover band? And Jesus, a bad one at that. Chris Robinson is on my list of people who deserve a serious beating (this is an actual list; or at least it will be, I write pretty fast. I’m also going to start compiling a list of people who deserve to step on a rusty nail; he could probably go on that one too). I just don’t understand it. I don’t see how any self-respecting fan of U2 could also be a fan of Coldplay. It’s like telling people you like Adam Sandler and Jimmy Fallon…oh really? What the fuck’s the difference? One guy came first, the second guy came along and tried to capitalize on pretty much the same exact thing. Why couldn’t Fallon stop laughing at his own jokes and playing the guitar, it was only half-funny when Sandler did it. I can’t even put it into words, I am completely and utterly unable to express how much they suck. In the words of Homer Simpson, Coldplay is the, “suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked!”

Trenton

I arrived in Trenton, New Jersey at approximately 8:15, p.m. EDT. Now, even though I've grown up, and spent my entire adult life in New York, I've never been to Trenton...at least, not that I know of. It's entirely possible that when I was younger I erased the entire awful experience from my memory...but I doubt it.
So I step off the train; my ride, regrettably late; and begin to soak in the entire scene. The first thing I notice is what appears to be a great deal of people who all seem to be out of place. There appears to be family from one of the "I don't know states" Idaho, Indiana, Iowa...or I don't give a damn, wandering around while the son asks plaintive questions about how often and how late the trains run while the daughters look slightly too long at anyone with a skin pigment just a little darker than their Midwestern Sun-Aversion tans.
Once outside, I begin to cast about for what to do. My lady friend is going to be late in picking me up, which in most cases might have upset me a bit but under these unique circumstances, I'd rather soak in the complete and utter weirdness that is Trenton. I'd rather watch the father walk around with his (what looks to be) 14 year old daughter in pants tight enough to make R Kelly think twice, while he talks about, "missing the 7:15," while I think to myself, "dude, your daughter looks like a reject from Laguna Beach and you could possibly be her pimp and you're talking about missing a train that left this station an hour before I got here...what the fuck?"
I'm happy standing outside, smoking a cigarette, sending the rare text message while a possible crackhead/homeless man/junkie/lost Princeton student shuffles down this alley way (like the one outside Yankee Stadium that leads to parking, except much less sketchy and without those feelings of I might get raped by a one eyed man with a monkey and a three legged-dog) and this girl, again completely out of place, not asking, but telling me she's going to stand next to me until he recesses into the folds of the darkness.
I'm happy sitting inside, talking about the shitty day I've had with a friend of mine while a girl with a skirt no bigger than a Skittles wrapper asks a New Jersey Transit Police Officer a seemingly obvious question about the Departure Screen.
I'm especially happy when my call is interrupted and I'm saved from this anachronistic hell, this depressed dungeon of depravity, this just absolutely awful town or city or whatever it wants to be depressing the hell out of me.

Party...?

So I went to this party the other night. I mean, I guess you could call it a party, although it was more like a Bohemian, splatter painting, hash-munching, luke-warm wine swilling, asexual, sketchfest. Seriously I would’ve been more comfortable walking into a room with Roman Polanski, Michael Jackson and Jerry Lee Lewis and a naked 14 year old boy tied face down on the floor …it was that fucked up.
Can’t quite put my finger on it; maybe it was the guy who answered the door wearing a leather vest and a dog collar, maybe it was the bed in the middle of the living room with a huge bedroom covered floor-to-ceiling in paint so thick the whole room was probably several cubic feet smaller or maybe it was that none of the men seemed remotely fazed I was in the company of a lady.
I’ll tell you this much, that’s the last time I take a sip from the bottle marked “Drink Me.”