John Cusack, Amanda Peet, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Director Roland Emmerich participate in an open and candid forum about the potential end of the world, and their new film 2012. The meandering of the forum ushered in topics such as Vicodin, dehydrated food pills, Elephants, The Queen of England, boxes of humanity, Noah’s arc, and so forth. I attempt to convince Chiwetel Ejiofor that we share the same birthday, award nominations, and life history. I also attempt to convince Roland Emmerich that they’ve worked together before and are friends. Much to my chagrin, Emmerich remembers that they do not know each other…yet. Worth a watch.

There are drunk people playing a synthesizer in the other room and it sounds like someone scrambling a metal device around in my brain. The keyboard goes from a generic, midi-format polka to what could only be described as ambient sound-noodling. (Ok, so, in reality, I can come up with more ways to describe the sound, but I thought the phrasing was apt and decided “ambient sound-noodling” was simple and concise enough for my needs and purposes).

Have you ever heard the sound of two cats raping each other? How about sirens raping each other? Or armies of nails, again, raping each other on a giant acoustically enhanced chalkboard?
In short, I guess what I’m asking is - have you ever heard the sound of rape?
Because, unfortunately, that’s what a lot of music has been sounding like to me in recent times. Mostly times when I am trying to get to bed but can’t. I currently associate music, or the practicing of music, with the un-consenting entry of foreign objects into my aural cavities.

When you’re trying to sleep, ska music is like someone kicking you in the rib. They’re kicking lightly, but over and over again. It’s like a hyperactive elf, pounding erratically on your temple (in the same manner that a small child might; thrash their arms on the ground in a supermarket aisle).
Dance music at least has a steady beat; this is more like having a slow jack hammer pound into your face as you attempt to drift further into your pillow. It evokes the image so clearly you feel as though the beer-bellied construction worker looming over you. Often, the steady back and forth of the 120 BPM vacuousness causes my eyes to rock from left to right like a metronome (or one of those terrifying wall-clocks shaped like a cat). The paranoia builds up until you truly understand Poe’s tell-tale haunting. The beat is so steady that it feels like it’s inside you. So you go to your tool-box, get a chisel and start to pry open your head; but there’s nothing there, and the noise remains. Even as you lay bleeding on the ground, you can still hear that pounding. You can still feel that jack-hammer against your skull.

But at least it’s not hardcore.

I would rather have my testicles gnawed at by hungry beavers than hear a hardcore band play anything after midnight. All the screaming. Dear god, the screaming…
It’s like you’re in a blitzkrieg only people are making revenue off the merchandising.
Butt fucking a porcupine would be more pleasurable than listening to hardcore while trying to get to sleep. Frankly, I would rather have a pneumatic drill screwed into my urethra on webcam in front of congress.

[SIDE NOTE: At this point I’d like to say I would really NOT like to have any of these things done to me. In reality, toned down and out of persona, I would MUCH rather try to sleep through music than have anything inserted into my urethra or have sex (especially anal) with any form animal (especially one with quills).]

I guess what I’m saying is I’m a man who enjoys the simple things in life; like sleeping.
Quietly. In my comfortable bed.

Just like a regular citizen.

This is not an attempt to dis Megan or to knock her acting abilities. And, of course I think she’s hot. This is merely Matt’s take on the media frenzy that surrounds her. Please enjoy responsibly.

With all this talk of people upstaging adorable songwriting country stars (Hi Taylor), I feel like some things  may have fallen through the cracks. And by things, I mean…what the fuck is on Kayne’s head? Is anybody else seeing some sort of complex puzzle or maze? I feel like if you watched the VMAs stoned, you might just get lost for hours. His stylist probably moonlights as the guy who makes those paper place mats for TGI Fridays. Check out the up close photo from Perez and the following photo for an even more inexplicable side view:

Other possible expanations:

They’re crop circles made by a tiny, very douchey spacecraft.

The symbols are actually a major plot point in the next Dan Brown novel.

Kayne knew his parents told him not to, but he wanted his hair to look just like Cool Doctor Money.

He wanted blind people to be able to feel his head and know that he’s a giant tool. Kinda like douche Braille.

I could go on and on. (And sidenote, kudos to anybody who still remember’s Cool Doctor Money.)

For an award show known for surprises (Madonna kissing Britney, Russell Brand claiming he molested at least one of the Jonas Brothers), the VMAs 2009 presented one more.

Kanye West, eternal five year old screaming for more attention, decided to get on stage and tell everyone how much he loved Beyonce’s music video. Only he decided the proper time was during Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech.

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It started with extensive research and 32 songs emerged.  The people spoke and 16 were left standing!  (Assume I wrote three more NCAA Tournament Broadcast-worthy lines here.)  And now two remain…

Straight out of Los Angeles, California… residing on the US Pop Charts for over two months… clocking in at over 2 million downloads on iTunes… it has been called “the musical equivalent of a bad Farrelly Brothers movie”… My Humps!!!!

And the challenger… hailing from Nashville, Tennessee… a breakthrough crossover hit on both the Country and Pop charts in the United States… the reason people hate country music… so bad it was passed over by the Oak Ridge Boys… Achy Breaky Heart!!!

And now its up to YOU to decide which one is the worst song of all time.  How do you let us know here at the Zaz what your vote is?  There are several ways!

Option A:

Send an email to thatsongiscrap@gmail.com (yes its real). And vote for which ones you want to go on to the next crappy round. Sample email:

Mr. Zaz Report,
In order to sway your vote I am going to intoxicate you with my female cleavage and female bottom.  Aw.  Who am I kidding.  I don’t care if our song loses this contest and is officially deemed the worst song ever.  I just wrote this for you.  Because I am drunk.  Drunk on your lovely gentleman humps.  You drive this Fergie crazy.  You do it on the daily.  I’ll treat you really nicely.  I’ll buy you a Cherry Icee.  Playstation with the Blu-Ray.  I’ll buy you one every day.  Tickets to the big game.  I want to be your Dame.

Anyway.  Here is my vote.  CHECK IT OUT!:

Achy Breaky Heart

Fergalicious

Option B:
Become a fan of The Zaz! Report on Facebook and post your votes as a comment on there. Fan page is here.

Option C:
Comment on this post. Feel free to use foul language, make fun of any celebrity you see fit or just post your votes. You have free reign over your comments. Go buck wild.

Option D:
Stalk a Zaz! Report Writer and tell them your vote!

Please have your votes in by October 1st and I’ll post the results and we can finally name one song the WORST SONG EVER!

Current Vote Totals…

My Humps                 Achy Breaky Heart

21                                            10

Let’s take a more detailed look at the two songs (after the break):

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