Alright, I’ve got this. I’m prepared. Rolling up to the regularly scheduled orgy with my clean STD test, 700 or so condoms, some Lubriderm just in case, snacks, hydration, and a Polaroid camera in case anyone wants to look super retro and cool while they’re getting slammed.
You know, as I’m walking in, I figured it would be a lot louder in here. Like the hosts would be blasting Nine Inch Nails or, appropriately, Orgy. And that there would be moaning and screaming and stuff. Instead it’s like, really quiet. Too quiet.
And hey, why the hell is my college roommate here? I haven’t seen him in years. He’s always texting me that he’s “super worried” about me, and that he can’t come to my 4th of July cookout because I “ruin parties.” It’s odd that he would travel all the way here just to get some sweet gangbang action. You’d think he could do that on his own side of town.
Okay, and my ex-girlfriend? What the fuck? Someone should have told me she’d be here, that’s bullshit. The last time we talked, she was crying and trying to flush all my benzos down the toilet. That was the last straw. Do you know how hard it is to get Xanax without a prescription these days?
Wait a minute. This is fucked up. My parents are here, sitting silently on the couch, fully-clothed like everyone else. I’m starting to think that this is not an orgy after all. Everyone keeps looking at me nervously and gesturing for me to sit down because we have to “have a serious conversation about my drug and alcohol abuse.”
I most certainly did not sign up for this garbage. I came here under the pretense that I would be doing sexy naked writhing with a bunch of hot girls and maybe the occasional overweight hairy guy like myself. I did not come here to get chastised by everyone from my past who has no idea how to party. Do they even realize what utter buzzkills they’re being?
You know what? I don’t have to deal with this. They can yell at me and block the door and threaten to 5150 me all they want, but at the end of the day, I’m more than happy to barrel through them all with no remorse because I did several huge lines of blow while driving here. There is zero empathy left in this swiss cheese brain of mine.
Time to go home and get fucking shitfaced!
I do not believe this creature is ensouled. This heinous beast will be forced to wander the underworld in search of pizza and Scooby snacks as punishment for his abominable ways.
A most odious crustacean, Mr. Krabs has spent his wretched life glutting himself on the material comforts of the dollar. He has neglected his only begotten daughter, laid waste to the lives of his employees and burnt the land around him. The only hope for salvation lies in his fitting end. To be served to his customers as a meal. He must be boiled alive to mortify his wicked flesh and purify his greedy soul.
A drinker, a menace, and a hedonist of the first order, this gray pear-shaped extraterrestrial will doubtlessly be smote by the Lord. The only downside would be that he seems the type to enjoy a good smiting. Filthy thing.
He hath usurped the Creator, reveled in the idolatry of science, built machines in the likenesses of the dog, and familiarized himself with Carl, a tubby child who is covetous of his mother. Jimmy Neutron is a he-witch of the first order. He should be pressed to death for corrupting the cadre of youths he has brought under his spell.
Speaking of witches, we must address the boy-child with the magical fish. A fairy by any other name is, in fact, an imp. A tiny devil. It is clear that brother Timothy Turner has made a pact with Lucifer by way of the fish and has traded his immortal soul for mastery of magic most foul.
The split-hoofed one. The she-pig. The child-sow. Her soul contains immeasurable evil. I shudder to think how she wields influence over her minions: Muma Pig and Daddy Pig. She has gripped her hooks into the minds of America’s youth and she won’t let go.
What is this, you say? Oh-bee-oh-by-oh-bother! Brother Ned? The righteous? The censorious? Cast into everlasting death? Aye, so it is, my brothers and sisters. So it is. For you see, though he plays the virtuous Christ-i-an for the neighborhood and sayeth his prayers by night, Ned Flanders is in fact… left-handed. I think I needn’t say more. The devil doth come in sheep’s clothing after all.
Aside from the fact that cats are of the beast to begin with, Garfield is an especially hideous lout. He’s lazy. Slothful. Gluttonous. Wrathful. Filled with pride and pomp and vigor. He’ll be milked like a grape to fill the chalice of Beelzebub. But still, he’s not to blame. For there’s…
His wicked master. Jon is another he-witch of the highest order. He keeps familiars, the cat Garfield, the hell-hound Odie. (Short for Odious, I have scant doubt.) He is a loathsome sort of a man. Lazy, pathetic, dull. Endlessly lustful after the flesh of the female. Specifically, the she-healer, Liz. He is hopeless.
A boisterous drunkard and a wastrel. Though he lives but an inch from noble poverty, he is content to spend what money he has on tricks and scams and schemes, while the rest of his family is cold and hungry through the wintertime. He should shiver with them. And take each pang of hunger in his bloated belly as a gift.
A being not of this earth, but shaped like the unclean shrimp. He rants and raves and thrashes about madly, screaming about world domination. It is clear he has been tormented by devils. For his own sake, we must put his head in the vice until they leave him be.
A lad in dire (oh yes, brothers and sisters, I do mean dire) need of a good lashing. It is clear that the fat, ill-humored fingers of his father ‘round his throat have done little to instill morals or values. Desperate measures must be taken. I suggest the dunking stool.
As a mechanical man, he has a mechanical soul and will be sent to mechanical Hell. I have no more words to say for him.
This man hath a heart which is black and burdened and twisted. He is cruel to his dog, neglectful to his wife, and unkind to his fellow man. All of these would be fine, of course, but he is also neglectful as a farmer. He is unwilling to work the land and therefore should have no expectation of its graces.
Jake, along with all of his friends, are walking-talking beasts that socialize with the human boy Adam Lyon. Clearly, they are wicked things that have enchanted this lad away from his happy home. Yes, indeed, all of the “My Gym Partner is a Monkey” cast should be burnt. Whether they be talking land-beasts or Slips, the serpent which tempted Adam and Eve.
Oh, you fools. You poor, poor simple fools. There beith no such thing as a friendly ghost. Mark me on that. This poltergeist, this unbaptized boy-phantom, has been cast from G-d’s graces. Now, he haunts the televisions of our children, tempting them unto death. He will need to be purged from the houses and put to rest.
I have no idea what tiresome religious order this “House of Mouse” is, and I hope never to. But he is leading a flock of the deceived. Like the Pied Piper, he has led away the children, in the form of his minions: the Mouseketeers.
This monster should not exist. Cats should not wear little bows. Cats should not wear overalls. Cats should not be able to walk upright and say “hello” to anyone, save a saucer of milk. To this beast, I would much prefer to say goodbye.
A fiendish woman, Peggy Hill is pride incarnate. She has led her family to disaster on many occasions. To the near brink of financial ruin. But even these misdeeds could be excusable. What I do not find excusable, what compels me to say nay to Goody Hill, are the stumps she parades herself about on. Her giant, clobberous feet. They are not of the Lord. She must remove them if she wishes for life ever-lasting.
G-d save us! Winnie the Pooh! Winnie the excrement! A fat, debauched, hedonistic bear who lives off of milk and honey and who is content to traipse about nearly naked, fouling himself wherever he pleases and allowing his WIGGLING JINGLE-JOHN to blow freely in the breeze. Disgraceful.
She is a witch. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life! She keeps a cat familiar known as Sylvester, to whom she has taught the incantation: “Sufferin’ succatash!” and a small yellow imp named Tweety. Still, she appears to be of a benevolent disposition. Perhaps merely a pagan.
After the band’s breakout 2005 LP “Discovering the Waterfront” the online buzz on its upcoming follow-up 2007 record “Arrivals & Departures” weeks before its release was said to break the band out into the newly multi-platinum world of both Fall Out Boy and Avenged Sevenfold. Sadly, it was more of a departure than an arrival. The band has expressed displeasure towards this full-length many times in the press, and we agree tenfold. Happily, things would soon get better for all outside of your boomer parents.
As ambitious, original, and creative as this nearly-twenty-minute twenty-two-song-release of the appropriately titled “Short Songs” was to listen to front-to-back in 2012, it just doesn’t hold up in 2023 compared to the next nine LPs. Still, for ‘90s punk rock historians, the cover versions of both Gob’s “236 E. Broadway” and NOFX’s “It’s My Job To Keep Punk Rock Elite” are fun as fun can be. In closing, Skee-Lo proved that good things sometimes come in small packages, and this LP is nothing short of a six-four Impala.
We suck, we know. This album totally rules, we know. The band’s debut fan-favorite LP “When Broken Is Easily Fixed” was a solid introduction to Silverstein in 2003, but after a revisit, the album sounds very young in a non-flattering way. If you disagree, and we know that you truly do for both this ranking entry and its “skip it” section, make your own damn list and post it on Friendster for at least one click. Maybe if this entire album was re-recorded a la the more than solid recent two-part “Redux” series it would’ve been listed higher here, and what’s subjectively broken would have been objectively fixed.
Although pretty uneven at times, “Rescue,” Silverstein’s first post-Victory Records release and debut outing for Hopeless Records, is likely Silverstein’s most slept-on LP. “Sacrifice” is easily a top five single of all time for the band, and “The Artist” (featuring fellow Canadian band Counterparts’ lead singer Brendan Murphy) is an aggressive headbanger (or banger if you talk like an infant) as well. Honestly, if the band modified the release from twelve songs to nine or ten, the album would’ve been revered much, much more.
“A Shipwreck in the Sand,” Silverstein’s first-ever concept album and subsequent follow-up to the poopy, poopy misstep listed at number eleven, satisfied both the end of the band’s contract with Victory Records and their many ardent fans rooting for the act to return to glorious form. Going back to Canada with Terrance, Phillip, and producer Cameron Webb in lovely, lovely Mississauga, Ontario, was a smart and extremely triumphant move for the group. P.S. The bonus track cover of The Beatles’ composition/album/movie theme song “Help!” slaps (if you talk like an infant II).
Silverstein’s most recent 2022 outing “Misery Made Me,” is the band’s second most emo-sounding record title referencing oneself and is quite a solid listen front-to-back. Also, its Deluxe album cover looks cool AF when one views it on Apple Music. Go there right now and read on whilst your mouth stays open for all eleven songs of the non-Deluxe version. Sick, eh? Anyway, since we were given the tough task of ranking ELEVEN albums, we must note that the record just isn’t as memorable as the following releases.
“I Am Alive in Everything I Touch,” Silverstein’s first of two albums for Rise Records, is another concept album for the five-piece, and a very, very solid one at that. Speaking of the number five, we mentioned that “Sacrifice” is a top five single for the band and “A Midwestern State of Emergency” is definitely at the top of the singles heap, showcasing every positive element of both the MidBEST and Silverstein (aggression, melody, and sweet endearing accents) in their respective highest approach. What a milestone! Just try NOT to headbang to that nasty guitar riff.
One badass point to note about this recent 2020 outing (and first for label UNFD; this band definitely experiments with a sort of scene swinger “Eyes Wide Shut”-esque relationship for various indie labels, but we digress) is that the many features from diverse acts as Underoath, Simple Plan and Princess Nokia make “A Beautiful Place to Drown” feel like a Warped Tour veteran’s rock-based hip-hop album. Despite us ranking this just below third and not qualifying for a top-three medal, that’s not a dig! Sincerely. Plus, this album also has FOUR singles and all of them are beyond catchy.
Sorey, sorey, sorey: We suck part two as Silverstein’s biggest-selling album “Discovering the Waterfront” isn’t ranked higher here in this article or your bedroom. Like we mentioned in the truly well-written and insightful opening to this piece, along with popular songs by then-labelmates Hawthorne Heights and Atreyu, Silverstein’s “Smile In Your Sleep” was appropriately featured in Victory Records’ commercials on Fuse Ad Nauseam. Call it bloody karma. Also, we’re almost at the twenty year mark for this now classic LP, so hire your sitters two years in advance and come out to see the band likely play this front-to-back at your favorite venue in 2025! Or don’t, rodeo clown.
“Dead Reflection,” Silverstein’s ninth total album and final release via Rise Records, features two singles that showcase the band at both its catchiest (“The Afterglow”; so infectious, sis) and riffiest (“Retrograde”; so tight, bro). Also, it must be said that many thought that the band would have become a long gone ghost by this time in their impossible-to-predict extensive timespan, and would have featured their last looks albums ago, but they were so, so wrong! We also love the bold and bright album cover sans band and album title words. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
And another concept album for the win! Yup. Silverstein recently announced a ten-year anniversary tour for 2013’s “This Is How The Wind Shifts,” a perfect listen from start to finish, and we hope that that run sells like guns in the States or poutine in Canada. For vivid proof of our correct opinion on this fan-favorite LP, we didn’t include any tracks to skip below; the album is just that good. Yup. It should also be mentioned that the new addition of Paul Marc Rousseau as an official band member for this record started part two for this band, and the sequel has been quite an enjoyable and fulfilling romp since. Yup. Listen to this album right now and scream!
To be honest, the only thing that would improve Kiss is if every member of the band was replaced by Andrew. Even then I’m not sure it’d be enough.
Shoegaze bands are notorious for their immobility on stage. That’s boring to look at. I want to see a singer do mid-air kicks and throw punches with no regard for their personal surroundings and shit. Kevin Shields could never.
There’s no denying that Cannibal Corpse’s music rips. But their vocalist’s death growl reminds me of Tim Allen’s “Home Improvement” grunt. Replacing him with Andrew could be the missing link that would make them a household name.
An Andrew W.K.-era Misfits lineup would totally make up for the Graves era and whatever that era was where Jerry Only was the lead singer.
There’s nothing worse than an emo band that doesn’t look like they play the sport they’re named after. Andrew at least bears resemblance to someone who could be a backup linebacker.
Black Francis looks less like a lead singer of a band and more like a roadie of a band. If anything, Andrew would be more of a cosmetic change.
If Andrew W.K. replaced Dave Matthews as the Dave Matthews in Dave Matthews Band I would have no choice but to start wearing a hemp necklace, cargo shorts, and sandals. Actually, this is not ideal.
The only thing stopping me from enjoying this band is their asshole lead singer. That and their music, lyrics, social media presence, and overall aesthetic. Andrew would at least fix one of their many issues.
Vocalists shouldn’t bum you out when they’re singing. They should inspire you to buy a six-pack on a Tuesday on your way to commit petty crimes with best friends in the name of “living your best life.”
Andrew W.K., Andrew W.K., Andrew W.K., and Andrew W.K. just rolls off the tongue better.
The Killers pioneered Mormon rock for some reason. There should be a clear separation between church and music. Unless, of course, you’re Andrew W.K., who once titled an album “God is Partying.” Preach.
It’s not about Deryck Whibley being a poor lead singer so much as him being 5’7”. Andrew W.K. is 6’3”. That’s a frontman I can get behind.
There’s no doubt the Smiths were talented at writing music. Most Smiths songs start off with a Johnny Marr guitar riff that grabs your attention before Morrissey’s voice makes you go “yeah, no.” I’d like to listen to more than 20 seconds of a Smiths song before I have to turn it off.
I can’t understand a single word Eddie Vedder says. Even if I can’t decipher everything W.K. says, I know what the subject matter is going to be about.
I don’t know what a ska band would sound like with Andrew W.K. at the helm, but I’m willing to give it a go.
Billy Corgan is severely lacking in exuberance levels and overall charm. It’s the main thing holding this band back.
“Sublime with Rome with Andrew W.K.” may be a mouthful, but it’s worth the extra syllables if it means I’d be inclined to actually listen to them.
The main problem with boy bands is that there aren’t any grown men in them willing to have a bloody nose on their album covers.
311 has two primary vocalists. I can’t keep up with that many. You could just consolidate them into one Andrew W.K. and make everyone happy.