Turn on, tune in, and die.

I'd rather be in NeverLand trying to catch the elusive Pan with my feet housed in concrete Timberlands, than watching say, ANYTHING on MTV. Especially the ocean of putridity that is the VMA's. Yes, it's no longer music television my friends. I shall rename MTV the more apt moniker "make them vomit".

And boy, was I choking back the chunks like a bulemic before she hits the bathroom when my senses were raped by the ever so shitty Diddy, his jutting jowls, and his terrible version of this out-of-control-boulder-of-dung-rolling-down-the-mountain awards show. And when I say terrible, I'm not just on a fan boat whistling the anthem of the slave states.

Yeah, I can't believe it, but I managed to stomach the VMA's for the longest time in years the other night with my wife; who, conversely watches shows like this as a mother crocodile watches her clutch of eggs. My mouth was agape and arid at what the once legitimate cable network tried to pawn off of as "cool". Seriously, you think 4 bucks a gallon for George W's crude is cruel and unusual? Try to watch Fifty Cent do anything at all without wanting to slice your wrists vertically and just leak. Absolute garbage. I wanted to jump through the TV with a lampshade, put it on Fitty's head, and kick him square. But he's sold drugs, been shot countless times, heavily tatted, on steroids, talentless; yet he's the truth dog. Fitty y'all.

And oh, how could I forget Kanye "I'm MTV's Newest Tampon" West's face on three straight commercial spots during this disaster. This ensued just after an abominable performance by Kanye and Jamie "I got an Oscar for a prolonged In Living Color impression" Foxx that was reminiscent of a Super Bowl halftime show sans Jimmy Buffet, Aretha Franklin, and Tim McGraw/Faith Hill. The overexposed duo were wearing old-school tuxes while Kanye's chipmunk cheeks spat out blather about girls goin' 'head,doin' their thing, gold-digging and such. During this televised abortion, I predicted that "Wanda" would be trippin' enough that he would be taking off his shirt to show the world his Bowflex body. Which he did. Sadly, Jamie isn't anymore entertaining as a singer/sidekick without a shirt. Oh, and by the way, Kanye West didn't put Chicago on the map; contrary to what MTV and Pepsi would have you believe. He's a semi-talent that just so happens to be the hugest sensation since the last gimmickcopeia MTV deemed their favorite son of the month. Last week.

But clearly, the worst atrocity MTV committed was when they thought it would be a good idea to link Paris "I am a rhythmless whore that has a different wang in my mouth ad nauseum and I'm wildly famous why?" Hilton and Bow "Don't call me Li'l" Wow, complete with his own velour doggy paw costume, for some good-natured "how much ice you rockin?'" banter. I have 65 karats, ooh, I've got 200! F'real? F'real. That's hot.

Folks, the end is near. A nimrod cowboy has the veto stamper of all veto stampers and uses it to jettison all things good. Lifetime jit-bag fratboys who wear power ties are spending over one hundred bucks a pop to fill up their stupid fucking I-don't-have-a-small-dick-Hummers. Hurricane victims shoot at rescue teams that attempt to help fellow hurricane victims with stolen guns from the "store" that killed Americana. And to make matters worse, Gilligan is dead.

Do you hear that? I think it's the four horsemans' horns a'blowing. Repent all ye sinners! We're damned; and I don't see G. Dubya or MTV dying for our sins.

So turn on one of G.Dub's inarticulate offerings whilst listening to Ciara or Li'l Jon's latest krunktastic gem and die in a puddle of cynicism and sweet disbelief. And thanks MTV for telling young kids everywhere that it's not their job to determine what's cool; it's yours.

And that's the way it is. Forever and ever, amen, yo.