Music’s a lot like syphilis and movies where Scarlett Johansson doesn’t flash her gash – there’s way too much of it in the world today. (By the way, hey Google, when I type “scarlet johansen naked” that’s precisely what I mean: Scarlett. Johansson. Naked. It’s not a suggestion. Don’t be giving me see-through wet bikini pics or red carpet nurp slips. Naked means vag. And in my own devil’s dictionary, said vag is like an eagle – spread and bald.) Back at the ranch, just because you wanna learn to play “Stairway To Heaven” doesn’t mean you need to go out to your local music store and pay double what you would on-line for a brand new Strat. And just because you can play that barre chord G from Everclear’s “Santa Monica,” it doesn’t necessarily mean you should do it in front of anyone other than your tabby cat. Finally, just because you were the funniest Jew on Felicity, overrated in House, or for fuck’s sake, scripted to be three pant sizes smaller in The Bachelor, it sure as hell does not automatically endow you with some unalienable right to play shitty covers on fiat alone. Sure, it might be all for charity, but the last time I was in the hospital for some sex-related injury, the pediatric burn unit wasn’t exactly clamoring for mediocre Cab Calloway or Stones renditions. Give ‘em some salve and a band-aid. Have they not suffered enough as it is? The only thing worse than 30 Odd Foot of Grunts and The Return of Bruno is an F-list stupor group such as this takin’ a stab at some Big Brother and the Holding Company. (One more aside, who the penis is Bonnie Somerville?) For Sartre, hell was other people. For me it was finding out that the “indestructible” Hayden Panties-I-wanna-tear-off…with-my-mouth might sit her fine ass in with these cunts soon. That’s what I get I guess for typing in “hayden panahteeair cunt” on Google.