I don’t like my brother calling Bob Seger a God because he gets paid to operate a forklift while running on weed oils with ear buds on for a living, which taints his entire musical library for me. Which reminds me of the time my brother left a used condom on our old white leather coach despite me specifying prior, “Don’t swipe any skanky ass puss over to our house, the one weekend, I have away from the kids to get some work done. I understand your need to feel important like Hunter Biden since he gave up blow for blow painting but refrain from being next level of sketchy for a change like asking to be excused from a barbeque with my kids to pick up some pain relief aspirin at the local Pharmacia in Dutchess County on a Sunday while disappearing in and out of a Requiem for Dream, Team Oxy, thanks.”
But back to Bob Seger, I’d ask Alexa to play Still The Same, every time I got a new piece published by the The Good Men Project, before my editor told me that my last submission would her give her boss a heart attack, which included a scene where Rob Van Zant from Lynyrd Skynyrd turns Neil Young into his Canadian Cunt in the can and says, “More shrieking Young like your whipped on an anti-vax man. Natural Immunity can survive.” Hank Williams Junior lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
So, I love me so Bob Seger to, but I stop at calling him a “God” because he sold the rights to his song “Like A Rock” to the Ford company knowing how Henry Ford is the only American name drop in Mein Kampf who he viewed as a model citizen because he wrote a newsletter that blamed the Jews for the controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, bro, keep clean from the heroin pills for your pain management issues for an extended stretch of time or show a modicum of remorse for making mom breakout into a perpetual case of canker sores and I’ll give a shit about your Kid Rock Country siding soul, deal?
Bob Seger is a God. You’d think my brother was working the assembly line for Ford’s new line of plug in Ford Explorers called, “Master Race Machines.” This is me interviewing Watson Computer on my Pause Daddy Podcast. “Watson, do you know that you’re named after Dr. Watson who invented tracking technology for the Kraut breath Nazis that made it easier to detect Jewish ancestry whenever they sported the ant eater schnauzer look between their legs instead? Watson Computer says, “No, shit Sherlock.”
Hitler even had a portrait of Henry Ford in his office. He put a swastika pin on his lapel, despite the swastika looking like 2 stick figures doing a 69 on a seesaw. Hitler called Heny Ford an “inspiration”, adding, “Fucking Christ killing Jews are the root of all evil, especially those descendants of Don Rickles who heckled the feckless, highly impressionable Roman Guards into crucifying Jesus to death.” Ford even received the highest medal in Nazi Germany called the Grand Cross German Eagle with a mustache on it. Ford wanted to wear it around his neck for the company Christmas Party until his wife said, “You look like a Dago clown with that thing on. Charlie Chaplin is getting invited to Hearst Castle and you’re not, get over it already. Bribe some Jewish writers from Hearst Newspapers to write your International Jew column for you if you crave the Jewish media’s embrace so much. Aren’t money hoarding, parasitical worms their spirit animals? So, get that God ugly necklace off and make me a French martini with an orange rind twist. Somebody has to add some color to this relationship. And dressing up like Woodrow Wilson for Halloween doesn’t count.” Trumpism lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Is there anything Hitler didn’t culturally appropriate. First, it’s the swastika, which was formally a Hindu symbol for anal herpes karma, so that was actually quite on brand really. Then, he culturally appropriates Chaplin’s stash despite it failing to hide his herpes sores which flared up his desire to annihilate any non-kraut breath since his father called his decision to pursue art as a profession as “too ambitious”, before adding, “And you’re not even a speed freak hooked on Crystal Meth whose softer than German Pound Cake.” Plus, Hitler’s master race theory was totally pulled straight from the eugenics playbook written by the founder of Planned Parenthood, Margaret Sanger. And Planned Parenthood has deflated more hoop dreams than the NCAA instituting a no dunk rule because Kareem made Indiana centers look whiter than White Man’s Disease.
But back to Bob Seger. You could accuse the heartland rock God as the king of pedo friendly lyricism on his album Night Moves, when he sings, “Come see your papa if you need a pacifier? Then, motor mouth Bob sounds like Christmas came early when he sings, “Call me anytime. I’ll try to be your pacifier. If you feel like a horse blazin at the bit. It’s because I knocked out your fucking teeth because you chomped down too hard on my carrot stick.”
Next morning, Little Girl Blue asks, “Daddy, why didn’t the Tooth Fairy hook me up with a whole lot of Bitcoin under my digital wallet pillow last night? Is the Tooth Fairy another cheapskate Queen like Lou Reed?”
Father still drunk on Fire Water hell screams, “The Rock slept in for a change, alright. Where’s your friend Jenny? Is she hanging out with Gump again? Unlike you, she’s got good southern etiquette. And doesn’t mouth off and talk with her mouth full of more bay seasoned shrimp next time your cousin Billy Bob pays a visit.” Truly tasteless jokes about incest, cousin fucking and pedo punctuated lyricism live, Challah. Thank you very much.
But in Bob Seger’s defense, he only comes across as a harmless peeping tom loser in the song Main Street. Who can’t even get his courage up to enter the strip club, let alone offer to tip the DJ a crisp 20 spot for playing the 22-minute version of Whipping Post from the Filmore East by the Allman Brothers band. So Seger could get the most bang out of their one song per dance policy on Creeper Tuesdays. Instead, all Seger does in the song Main Street is creep on the so young and sweet stripper by watching her through the glass to the smoky live beat. Segar should’ve renamed that song, Blue Balls on Main Street.
But let’s talk about how great St. Louis Cardinals fans are. Cardinals Nation gave Mark McGwire consistent standing ovations during his initial 0 for 28 hitting slump after they traded for him midseason, not knowing if he’d resign with them in the off season after his contract was up. Yankee fans would’ve been raiding the closet for Energizer batteries to pelt his Pez Despenser head with while hyped on shitty coke from Washington Heights. He’s only 6’5. Pops is right, I really am a waste of height.
This is George Thorogood backstage with Sammy Haggar during their Crazy Times Tour. “Hey Sammy, I tried your Tequilla. It tastes Van Halen light.”
And this is the CDC throwing a retirement party for Dr. Fauci. “Hope you’re not sick of Gnocchi, Dr. Gnocchi. We got Mario Batali on the cheap. It was Gates idea to put caramelized grasshoppers on top. So, let’s raise our Placenta Stump Smoothies and toast the greatest loser streak off all time. How many hit vaccines were developed under your watch? An Aids blanket quilter on Pinterest would like to know. But if you’re goal was depopulation with the clot shot. Then, mazel Tov, you and Gates got what you wanted. To the year of the Four Eyed Snakes. I hope Herschel Walker forgets about pumping your daughter with some MAGA teen spirit between 1000 more crunches with Fox News on the background while making Jungle Fever great again. Does it feel inclusive enough dear? Hershel Walker plows Gate’s daughter after pounding some shots of Wheatgrass on her Placenta Smoothie Farm Retreat and says, “Too inclusive, yet?” Creeper Tuesdays live, Challah. Thank you very much.