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[05 Jan 2008|11:50pm] |
WHAT MATTERS IS THAT COLDPLAY MANUFACTURES FAKE LOVE AS FRENETICALLY AS THE FORD FUCKING MOTOR COMPANY MANUFACTURES MUSTANGS, AND THAT'S ALL THIS WOMAN HEARD. "FOR YOU I BLEED MYSELF DRY," SANG THEIR HEAD VOCALIST, BRILLIANTLY INFORMING US THAT THE STARS IN THE SKY ARE, IN FACT, YELLOW. HOW AM I GOING TO COMPETE WITH THAT SHIT? THAT SLEEPY-EYED BOZO ISN'T EVEN MAKING SENSE. HE'S JUST POURING FABRICATED EMOTIONS OVER FOUR GLOOMY GUITAR CHORDS, AND IT ENDS UP SOUNDING LIKE LOVE. AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? IT MEANS SHE FLIES TO FUCKING PORTLAND TO HEAR TWO HOURS OF AMATEURISH U.K. HYPER-SLOP, AND I SLEEP ALONE IN A $270 HOTEL IN MANHATTAN, AND I HOPE COLDPLAY GETS FUCKING DROPPED BY FUCKING EMI AND ENDS UP LIKE THE STONE FUCKING ROSES, WHO WERE ACTUALLY A BETTER BAND, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.
NOT THAT I'M BITTER ABOUT THIS.
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