Back to the Motor League

I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a

fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if

 I fade away. So back to the Motor League with me before I'm forced to face

the wrath of a well-heeled buying

 public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and

floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to

 the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a

live grenade of play-acting

 "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and

wieners drunk on straightedge.

 Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your

bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares about

 your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It

never ceases to amaze me and

 as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my

own sad history of mouthed

 feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls. But what

have we here? 15 years later

 it still reeks of Swill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the

air like-father, like-son rebels

 bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: take back your

Amy Grant mosh-crews and

 your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.

Back to the Motor League. I guess

 life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a

framework of obedience. Just ask

 the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists,

silencing competing messages,

 rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.