July 2010


It’s taken a couple of days for my anger to cool down to the level at which I would be able to rationally respond to the complete fucking stupidity that General Tao penned here a few days ago. You know, his complete wrongheaded and baseless assertion that Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” is a better album than “Pyromania”. Great debate? Pfffttttt. I’m not going to waste time trying to argue that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, regardless of whether you are right or wrong. The truth is, I am completely right and General Tao obviously suffered some sort of severe head trauma during his child. I can tell because he never cuts his hair too short — we would see the imprint of the car fender or the table edge or whatever the fuck shorted out his ability to discern the simply musically good from the sonically phenomenal.

It is obvious that Pyromania is better than Hysteria. (And to the guy who thinks “High and Dry” is better? Brother, just pack up the tent and go home. That’s like arguing Tito was the best Jackson.) To keep things short and to the point, here are the five reasons why:



This is the most bad-ass album cover ever. Who hasn’t dream of shooting something at a skyscraper causing it to blow up? Mohamed Atta, that’s who. He didn’t dream it — he lived it. So it’s settled — Def Leppard caused 9/11. We’ll make a few calls to Homeland Security and get this wrapped up by dinner.


“Gunter glieben glauchen globen.” I believe that’s German for “Work Will Make You Free.” That seems like a rather inspirational…Oh. So they’re Nazis and Islamic fundamentalist terrorists. I don’t know how those views reconcile with each other, but I know for sure that Def Leppard are the true bad boys of rock, like the Scorpions, Nusret Fateh Ali Khan and RaHoWa rolled into one. You know, like Matchbox 20.


Fact: Kurt Cobain quoted “Rock of Ages” in his suicide note. Neil Young? Please — it was obviously the Lepp that the Mighty KC was immortalizing.


They don’t name awkward, flamingly gay, “Journey”-dominated Broadway musicals starring THE Constantine Maroulis after just any song.

4. “FOOLIN'”

Where’s the letter “G”?, you might ask. I’ll tell you where — in the back of his van fucking your woman, drinking a beer and smoking a joint – ALL AT THE SAME TIME!!! He’s going to ejaculate as soon as Phil Collen finishes his guitar solo.


There’s something unique about “Pyromania”. It has such a powerful and unique aura that is remarkably difficult to describe. It’s different than “Hysteria”, but I can’t exactly articulate why. It’s like the sound of one hand clapping. No, wait — it’s the sound of TWO ARMS DRUMMING.


There’s only one true song called “Photograph” and it certainly wasn’t done by a permed jackass out of Alberta. And there’s only one true Def Leppard masterpiece, and that’s Pyromania.


(New York City. Jay-Z’s Manhattan studio. LeBron James enters)

LeBron: S’up, Jay.

Jay-Z: Hey! S’up, big man?

(They hug)

LeBron: Not much. You ready to go hit the club?

Jay: For sure. But before we do, I got a little something for you.

LeBron: Oh yeah? What’s that?

Jay: It’s my LeBron James tribute track.

LeBron: (excited) Really?

Jay: Really. (walks into booth) Grab a seat right there, man, I’m going to record it with you in the room.

LeBron: (sits down, beaming) Hey hey, alright!

Jay: (to producer) We rolling? Alright, hit it.

(Beat starts)

Jay: Alright now. Just chillin’ in the studio. Got my man LBJ in here with me. And we about to lay it down…

“The Decision”
Summer two thousand and ten
Remember where you was?
Jay does
And also when
He got on that plane to Cleveland
Comrade Mikhail at his side
We were goin’ on a trip
Just to get taken for a ride
Up to the office of L-R-M-R marketing
All for the chance to sit down and remark to King
James “oh, sire, if only you’d consider
Our noble little quest to turn our team into a winner”
But man, we
sold that shit, spared no expense
LeBron sat and listened, starin’ all intense
Then he thanked us for our time, and sent us on our way
Like he was Alec fuckin’ Baldwin and we was Tina fuckin’ Fey
Yeah, we was playing 30 Rock, instead of dirty Roc-a-Fella
And then he shot us in the gut like our name was Old Yeller
Because we soon found out we’d been wasting our time
You see, LBJ had long ago made up his mind
While we thought there was some mystery to the whole, “man, where will he go?”
Turns out LeBron was just playing us to stroke his own ego
Well wasting Jay’s time? That’s a sin you can’t repent
So lube up, Bron, here comes the Nas treatment

LeBron: Uh, Jay?

Jay: Huh? What’s up, baby?

LeBron: Is there…is there something you want to talk to me about…?

Jay: Hold on, man. We haven’t gotten to the good part yet!

LeBron: Gulp.

Jay: Back at y’all…

King James, a “global icon”
Who came up with that? Your dumb-ass hype mon?
How can you be an icon when you ain’t done shit
Except win 60 games, then in the playoffs, quit?
I don’t know who advises you, but I’m telling you you oughta
Tell your lap dog there’s only one Maverick named Carter
LRMR Marketing? Don’t make me laugh
I got more chauffeurs than your office got staff
LeBron, Richard, Maverick and Randy
That’s four names but one client – bitches, what’s your Plan B?
They’ll be four dead in O-hi-o when I’m done
And they’ll play this track at your funeral instead of Neil Young
But enough about boy businessmen, I’m here to talk about you
You can call me Paul Pierce, here’s your helping of truth

Jay: (smiles at LeBron, gives thumbs up)

LeBron: (shifts uncomfortably in chair)

You ain’t done shit, but act like the world owes you
You wanna be a billionaire? Shit, son, I’ll loan it to you
Because you won’t get there on your own now that you gave up your brand
They call you a manchild? Well I say drop the ‘man’
Just because you got a tattoo doesn’t mean that you loyal
Just because you call yourself “King” doesn’t mean that you royal
And even if you was royal, it was only in the Cleve
Which makes you dumb as shit for the way you chose to leave
The rest of this kingdom’s already got a ruler
Wanna guess what his name is? Anyone? Bueller?
That’s right, it’s Jay, and long live the King
I got rooms full of jewels while you’re still scrambling for a ring
“Take my talents to South Beach?” Bitch, the team’s called the Heat
And just in case you think your boys can’t be beat
I got something to say to your number two and number three
Cuz when you fuck with Jay, I fuck your whole family

LeBron: (standing up) Jay, really, I’m uncomfortable with…


LeBron: (sits down)

Now Wade’s got a title, and yeah, he’s got game
And the money and the honeys and the fortune and the fame
But let me tell you something ’bout your super friend Dwyane
The least fucked up thing about him is the way he spells his name
Don’t get me wrong, there’s weird shit that I did
But who the fuck gets it on in front of their own kids?
And what the hell was up with you and Star Jones?
And the band-aid on your face? Fuck is wrong with you, homes?


And CB4? Fuck does that even stand for?
I forgot your name seconds after you walked in the door
And while I’m standing here trying to remember your name
You can say your goodbyes to your last All-Star game
You think you’re big time all of a sudden? Turtle, from where I sit
You’re a C-list baby sucking A-list tit

(A crowd of people suddenly pour into the booth, bouncing to the beat)

Tell you what, sunshine, I’m gonna help you out
With a call and response for the league’s fans to shout
Lemme hear you say “Wade! James! And what’s his name?”

Crowd: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Jay: Now lemme hear you say “RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!”

Crowd: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

Jay: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Crowd: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Jay: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

Crowd: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

(Crowd exits; Mikhail Prokhorov enters)


Jay: My man! Here, take the mic. (hands mic to Mikhail)

Mikhail: Nyet, Jay. I could not possibly…

Jay: Just give it a whirl, man.

Mikhail: (shrugs) Oh, I suppose. Here goes.

My name is Mikhail, and I’m here to say
I mine gold and nickel, which helps me to pay
For basketball team called New Jersey Nets
And what Prokhorov want, Prokhorov gets
So I don’t like to be made to look like a fool
Wasting my time? It’s not…how you say…cool
You anger Russian billionaire before? That I surely doubt
Because you still walking…for now. Prokhorov, out

Mikhail: (waves hands in air, exits booth)

Jay: Ha ha! You’re crazy for this one, Mik! (to LeBron) Now…

I wanna thank you for coming to visit me today
And I hope I didn’t waste your precious time in any way
One final question to consider and then we’ll start boozin’ it
And my name’s not Jim Gray, so no, you won’t be choosin’ it
Magic, Jordan, Bird, Kobe, Russell
The all-time alphas with the all-time hustle
Now here’s my question, and then we’ll get gone
Does it bother you that list won’t ever say ‘LeBron’?
Hell, it’d bother me, but then I’m not one to say
Cuz in hip-hop that list’s got just one name – Jay

(slams mic on ground; beat stops)

Jay: (to producer) We good? Alright, do your thing with that, baby. (walks out of booth towards LeBron) So what you think, man?

LeBron: …

Jay: Ha ha. Speechless, right? Just like I thought. Don’t worry, man, I’ll send you the very first copy we press. I’m going to take that platinum.

LeBron: (holding stomach) I don’t feel so good. Maybe I should skip…

Jay: (leading LeBron out studio door) Nonsense, you’re fine. We’re gonna do it up tonight. (cell phone rings) Excuse me a minute. (answers phone) Hey, what’s up, Gloria? How you doin’, beautiful? I’ve been thinking about you, too. Matter of fact, I’m with your boy right now…


See also: The Jay-Z Benefit Track for Babies with AIDS

As sage pundits of life advice who shape the blogosphere with our every word, we here at FCL are often the recipients of requests for moral guidance in these troubled times in which we live. Peoples of all faith turn to us to answer the “big questions” in their lives: “Is it alright to find the daughter from  Modern Family  attractive?” (yes, she’s 19); “Are the Irish genetically deficient, or just incredibly lazy?” (yes); “Does God exist?” (yes – see below)


(a pre-emptive proof for our next great debate, “Which is the hottest Jessica?”)

Usually the authors of this fine website of wisdom agree on the correct “answers” to these queries, as we are as intelligent as we are handsome… Recently, however, Mr. Butter Chicken and I have found ourselves at loggerheads over a particularly weighty issue that we have been unable to resolve. Accordingly, we have agreed that we will each present our arguments in support of our respective positions in the form of a brief essay, and let the readers decide (yes, all three of you). The heated topic of the day, as one might expect, relates to the musical stylings of Def Leppard (a topic that has been the direct cause of no less than 3 major wars, 2 political coups, and 1 nascent insurgency in the late 1980s). More specifically, the question is this:

“What is the greatest Def Leppard album of all time?”

To many of you this may seem like an odd question, as the response is seemingly self-evident – Hysteria. And rest assured that I empathize with this reaction, because that is obviously the correct answer. For some reason, however, Butter Chicken (if that is even his real name) labours under the sad misapprehension that Pyromania is the superior offering. Without detracting from the laudible musical accomplishment that is Pyromania, I must disrespectfully disagree with Senor Chicken. Here is why:

At the outset, I should note that I do not intend to bore our readers with hard “science”, like the fact that that Hysteria dominated album charts around the world for three years, going platinum twelve times in the U.S. alone. Or the fact that Hysteria currently sits as the 51st best selling album of all time in the US, and spent a record 96 weeks in the US Top 40 (with more than 20 million copies sold worldwide). Admittedly Pyromania only sold 10 million copies worldwide, but I recognize that it’s not all about the benjamins (after all, 20 million of you could be wrong…). It’s about the music. It’s about the sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. It’s about the unbridled awesomeness that is Hysteria. And the only way to showcase that awesomeness (as compared to the qualified goodness that is Pyromania) is to look at the track list. So let’s start with the runner-up:


The album boasts three solid songs: Photograph, Foolin’ (without a “g”) and Rock of Ages. All great songs. I have played air guitar and (one-arm) air drummed to all of them. Nightly. But as every rap album in history has repeatedly proven, 3 good songs does not make an album. 3 good songs barely make an EP. It’s basically a single, with two kids. Sure, the kids are good looking and seemingly happy, but it’s still a broken home. In essence, Pyromania is nothing more than a pre-emptive collection of B-sides from Hysteria


Ah, sweet Hysteria. You can do no wrong. That’s why daddy loves you best. Armageddon It, you say? Don’t mind if I do. I would happily pour some sugar all over you, and turn it up to 11 until the break of 10:30. Look at your full complement of tasty offerings: Rocket, Pour Some Sugar on Me, Hysteria, Armageddon It, Love Bites, Animal… I went from 6:00 to midnight just thinking about these gems. It’s a veritable buffet of rock anthems that defined an entire generation of shirtless, angry loners with bad teeth and unwashed hair. It makes Pyromania seem like a sound check gone awry. But why take my word for it? After all, as the old saying goes, a YouTube clip of an 80s hair band music video is worth 10,000 words… So enjoy, good listeners – your day has just been made, courtesy of Steve, Joe, Phil, Rick and, of course, Mutt.

Looking for a song that plucks at the heart-strings of your true love while also providing your favourite stripper with the ideal musical accompaniment? Hysteria has you covered:

In search of a rock anthem that combines political punditry and social awareness with the raw awesomeness of rockets? Look no further than Hysteria, my friend:

Can’t find a song that turns an under-used biblical noun into a kickass verb? Perhaps you should try Hysteria:

How about a sexy instructional song that works in the bedroom as well as at the breakfast table? Hysteria has what you’re looking for:

Not enough circus allegories in your life? I hear you, brother. Thank god for Hysteria:

Chicken Little – I await your concession…

An insightful look at the headlines that shape your world

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So far, the only available app is designed to give users diarrhea.

When Teens Want Tattoos: Your Guide To Interpreting Underage Tramp Stamps

When my five-year-old came to me and said he wanted a Bakugan tattoo, I decided to turn it into a learning experience.  As in, ‘let’s learn about which childhood playthings are likely to become cultural icons and which ones aren’t’.


Crimes Against Humanity, as Seen by Alanis Morrissette: Khmer Rouge Chief Jailer Gets 35 Years

Could have been worse.  He could have been handed over to the dreaded Khmer Bleu.

Pamela Anderson, Foie Gras Foe, Vacuous Tit Model

Seriously though, is there anything meat-related that this woman isn’t against?

Billy Corgan Collapses on Stage in Self-Indulgent Triumph of Tortured Artistry

If whining were an acceptable form of singing, then this guy would be a rock star.


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You don’t even want to know what a tallboy costs.

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Toonces: The Aftermath


I am not (usually) a racist. In fact, I pride myself on my ability to treat everybody equally. For example, say I’m walking down a dark street at night and someone is walking towards me – black or not black, I’m voluntarily handing him my wallet in fear. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I was raised.

But the one area where I do admit to having some race-based predispositions is when it comes to cab drivers. Now, due to the Province of Ontario’s repeated refusal to accept the fact that I can drink a coffee, cycle through my iPod and shift gears at the same time, I’m forced to take a lot of cabs. And in Toronto, that’s usually not a bad thing. Toronto prides itself on being one of the most racially-diverse cities in the world, which is code for “many of our least desirable positions are filled by dangerously over-qualified foreigners.” As a result, your average cab driver in Toronto is infinitely more versed in world affairs than the average person born here, and some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been with cabbies. I’ve ridden with countless Arabs, Persians, Caribbeans, West Africans, Somalis, Filipinos and Turks, and I’ve learned more about the world in my average fifteen minute conversations with them than from any of my bi-monthly Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego? marathons.


Take us home, Rockapella

The one exception to the general rule, though? White cabbies.

I grew up in a remote, smallish town, where all we had were white cabbies. And they were sketchy. But sketchy in a “your classmate’s dad who sells pot to high school students” sketchy. Small town sketchy.

But white cabbies in the Big Smoke? That’s a whole different level of sketchy. These aren’t the recently landed immigrants, dutifully grinding their way through a shitty job in order to give their families a new start in a pretty wonderful country. No, these are the guys who got fired from working the desk at the adult video store because customers deemed them too creepy. Many are on the lam, bouncing from province to province in an effort to stay ahead of those gun charges. Several of them love Phish.

That kind of sketchy.

Case in point – a few weeks back I was taking a cab home from work. There’s always a line-up of taxis outside of my office building, and you take the first one, because that guy’s been waiting there the longest. As (bad) luck would have it, on this particular occasion, I drew a white guy.

As a bit of an aside, I usually like to pepper my cab driver with questions about what’s happening in the city. Since they spend their whole day driving around, listening to the news and talking to people, there is often no better source of first-hand local information. This (white) guy, however, was a notable exception. Whatever news source he was drawing from was beamed in from an entirely different solar system.

The day in question happened to be the Monday of the week following the G20 fiasco in Toronto, so it was a pretty crazy time by our standards. I got in the cab, and started making small talk about whether the police had released any more of the protesters they’d locked up in the temporary jail they had set up for the summit. The one that had been a focal point of extremely angry protests for four straight days. The one that had been the subject of heated debate between champions of civil liberty and the police brass for months. The one that happened to be right down the street, and which any cab driver who worked downtown would drive past a half dozen times each day.

He had no idea what I was talking about.

Fair enough, I thought. Not a current events guy. But had he felt, or at least heard about, the earthquake that lightly shook Toronto the week before (we don’t get a lot of those here)?

“That wasn’t an earthquake,” he chuckled. “That was just the ground shaking from me plowing my downstairs neighbour.”

“Ah”, I thought, quickly putting my iPod ear phones in, “that’s the kind of cab ride it’s going to be.” But he didn’t take my insertion of ear phones as a conversation killer. He just kept chatting right on through. Topics unilaterally canvassed included a new Batman movie which, even though it doesn’t exist yet, people apparently “won’t shut up about” (he thought Tom Hanks should play The Riddler), and how stuck up the women in Toronto were, especially since “most of them were just coke fiends”.

I just kept answering monosyllabically, but he didn’t seem to mind. This guy wasn’t Travis Bickle, but he may as well have been his harmless but infinitely more annoying younger brother.

I got him to drop me off at the end of my street, because I didn’t want him to know where I lived, and I thought there was a 50% chance he’d ask if he could come in and hang out. So as not to appear rude, I let him finish his rant about how big a fag the drummer in Sum 41 was (a timely critique), and then went hurriedly on my way.

While this is a bit of an extreme example, the fact of the matter is, most people who drive a cab in the city where they’re from have a few screws loose. And in Canada, most of these people are white. Is that a huge, possibly irresponsible generalization? Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean the next time a white guy is sitting pole position in the line-up outside my office, I’m not going to linger a few extra minutes so I can grab the Sikh gentleman killing time reading The Globe & Mail rather than the Irish-Canadian who’s just staring straight ahead and angrily chewing his wrists.

And female cab drivers? Jesus. Don’t get me started. But that’s a story for another day.

It was Mitsou yesterday — who’s on tap today?

My high school French teacher used to make us watch French music videos (or listen to French music…my memory is pretty hazy). We collectively did not give a shit and were somewhat put out by our teacher’s blatant laziness, but she was ridiculously hot so we pretty well silently acquiesced to anything she wanted to do. Anyway, the FRENCH MUSIC VIDEO OF THE DAY, which was introduced to me by my teacher (who I once saw working at the Keg Steakhouse at night, instilling in me the idea that I never ever want to be as poor as a young teacher) stays with me to this day because of the following:

– This song is a fucking brain worm. Enjoy singing it to yourself for the next decade, regardless of whether you speak French or not. You are now the guy in the elevator muttering “Et le cha-cha chi!” to yourself. Congratulations

– Yes, the singer is Vanessa Paradis — Johnny Depp’s wife.

– She looks like this now. Good call, Mr. Depp.


– She also looks like she could be Michael Strahan’s white sister. I may have been a bit hasty on the compliments, Johnny.


– She also looks 12. Do you think Johnny Depp saw the video and just waited, waited, waited until she was of legal age? French legal age, of course — I doubt he would wait for the American age of consent, which I understand to be about 25. It’s like the David Beckham/Posh Spice story, only infinitely more pederasty.

– She really could have gone one of two ways. Hot Vanessa Paradis (how she sort of turned out) or Sandra Bernhard’s shorter sister.


– Nice fucking sweatshirt, nerd. Although I’m sure an American Apparel designer is watching this video for the first time, gushing with excitement over his new idea for the fall collection.

Enjoy the video!

What’s this? Another insightful post/scathing critique/witty satire/charming script? No, it’s another fucking video because we are too busy/lazy/horny/lorny (is that a word?) to spend more than five minutes putting something together for you.

Today’s video — Mitsou’s “Les Chinois”.


When I was growing up, MuchMusic, which was Canada’s MTV before we actually got MTV, was federally mandated to play a requisite amount of French programming. Usually this was accomplished through a program called “French Kiss”, which was half an hour of French and French-Canadian music videos that played at some godforesaken hour when absolutely no one was watching TV. Well, no one except for pre-teen and teenage boys who were looking for something to masturbate to. And masturbate to “French Kiss” we did. The main currency in our spank banks? Sequentially numbered piles of Mitsou, the busty Quebecois pop chanteuse. Her most popular song was “Bye Bye Mon Cowboy”, but a lesser known ditty from Mitsou was “Les Chinois” also provided ample suggestive jiggling that was sufficient for our self-abusing purposes. What’s the song about? Beats the fuck out of me. My French is terrible. I assume the song is about the Chinese. If there is any doubt that is the topic of the song, this doubt is quickly dispelled about five seconds into the video by way of Mitsou dressed as a horrendously stereotypical Chinese woman. Even Mickey Rooney described that performance as “kind of over the top.”


What does the rest of the video hold? Not much. What does Mitsou’s ill-fitting bustier hold? A shitload of tits. Enjoy the video!

(Author’s note: This is post number 300 for me. Just so you know, I expect some sort of party. With cake. Chocolate, too, not some other shitty flavour.)


I was on the phone today to a work colleague when the song “Rock You” by Helix inexplicably came into my head. Given that my colleague is a few years younger than me (and given that I have attention-deficit disorder and no understanding of workplace decorum), I interrupted whatever we were supposed to be doing to ask her, “do you know the song “Rock You” by Helix”? She said she wasn’t sure but that she wasn’t very good with song titles. I assured her that if she had ever heard the song “Rock You”, she would definitely know what it was titled. If our audience at FCL doesn’t know this song, they should. For a young boy growing up in Canada, this video was an exciting sexual awakening, like Gowan’s “Strange Animal” but with more rock smashing, angry spelling and hot chicks. I decided to look up the video for “Rock You” on YouTube and send it to my colleague. The video below is the version I found. It has a lot more…tits than I remember (NSFW), and by God, I would remember this.

I did not send this video to my colleague. However, I did notice that this obscure video from a Canadian 1980s metal band has over 400,000 views. I’m guessing that other folks have found out about the titty thing as well.

…you should all fucking suffer like I am suffering.

That is all. Just doin’ the do.


A couple of months ago I shared with our beloved readership a few excerpts from a Facebook page to which I have indirect access (I am sadly not the author’s “Facebook friend”, though not for a lack of effort on my part – I have pretty much cyber-stalked the Philosopher King (or “DB”, as we have dubbed him) for the last 6 weeks in a desperate attempt to get direct access to his genius). For the record, the “updates” from DB were 100% real. They were not altered or embellished in any way, nor was the douchbaggery amplified…

The same holds true for the following recent “updates” from our friend DB (though our proposed responses have yet to be formally communicated):

Even the occasional vevuvula (or whatever – clearly i just wanted say something tangentially salacious) echoing through the streets at an appropriate point – say the brave Dutch scoring a goal, is annoying. Not every resurrection of cultural past time is benign.”

Please insert your tangentially salacious vevuvula into your own oral orifice and blow (benignly)

“Ryan – you know what i’m sick of? People who quote brecht. And worse than that: in a rhetorical question. While riding camels. horrible. the last thing on earth that a canadian person or society represents is anything VAGUELY Brechtian. (except for that colony just west of that place, north of that 14th province). empty conceit or indolence should not be confused with virtue – which basically also describes all of europe’s foreign policy. note to self: get out of other side of couch tomorrow.”

That’s right, “Ryan” – I am about as Brechtian as Kant was a consequentialist. And never confuse my indolence for virtue – my laziness is completely devoid of virtue. Note to self: beat DB (and Ryan, for good measure) with a tack-hammer next time you encounter said DB on the street

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