First of all, hello! I'm over talking about anthrax and Osama . . . continuing with the great American tradition of complete and unwavering denial, I'm going to completely ignore the ensuing chaos. Yes, it's time to be Mangy again.

Got to see George Carlin last Sunday . . . what a genius. After hours of moronic news coverage (Fox News is the oxymoron of all-time), It was amazing to see someone who actually understands the power of free, yes, FREE speech. Remember that? That's that thing where you can say what's on your mind without fear of being shunned or taken over by a conglomerate. I'd forgotten about it until last Sunday. God bless you, Master.

Also, take a look at my ticket . . . I have to think it was ordained that I be at this show:

Cool.

I'd actually like to talk about something that's probably a bit dated, but it's bugged me for quite a while. Kurt Cobain painted the wall with his own brains on April 5th, 1994 (yes, it's been that long . . . Christ). Since then, there's been a lot of revisionist history about Kurt Cobain's place in the pantheon of rock gods. The worst thing about this has been the deification of this guy, like having a lead breakfast is some kind of brave, heroic undertaking. Look, lemme tell ya something about people that commit suicide . . .

Fuck 'em.

Hey, I loved Nirvana's music. It pains me to think of the great music that might have been made if he had stayed alive. That's why I really can't forgive the goof. In an era where everyone is a needy victim, eager to dive headlong into a pool of self-pity at the drop of a hat, Kurt Cobain is its poster child. If you think he's some kind of hero for what he did, I recommend you follow your hero's example.

Kurt Cobain's suicide was the penultimate moment for my generation, and for all the wrong reasons . . . we went from Generation X to Generation Wah overnight, everybody sad and whiny and stupid. Jesus, GIVE IT A REST, for God's sake. We spent the most prosperous time in American history with our thumbs up our asses, whining at our microwaves because it takes THREE WHOLE MINUTES to cook popcorn. And who is the pop icon that represents us? A depressed heroin addict that deep-throated a shotgun. Ugh.

Sorry, Kurt, there's no romance in being a quitter, and that goes for all you goofs out there who wanna end it all because, sniff, people don't understand you, sniff, sniff. As far as I'm concerned, go right ahead, Whiny Breeches! It just saves the world from having to read any more of your shitty poetry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go hang up my George Carlin poster. Now THAT'S a hero.

This is the MangyDog, over and out.