MetalSucks

All right, so the next time you’re chilling with 5 or 6 people, put on this song and immediately force-feed a nitrous-filled whip-it balloon to the guy sitting next to you. Right when he’s about to start spinning, the drums ought to kick in. After the brief major chord blast-beat intro section, as the music builds into a solid whiplash groove and the vocals start to roar, you and the rest of the non-whip-it’d should slowly and quietly surround the nitrous captive, who’ll likely be oblivious to the details of the room…

Get ready to attack; but be cool about it.

The comfortable yet rawkus groove of the song will guide your friend through the popping of several useless brain cells, and I’d be shocked if there isn’t a perma-smile affixed to his zonked visage. Perhaps a slight dufus-chuckle will surface; maybe even a little drool will drop…and then the song will seemingly be over. Right around the minute-and-a-half mark, pretty much exactly as the whip-it releases its firm grasp on the target, the guitar will ring off the last crash hit, your friend’s high off the hippie crack will subside, and his eyes will eventually flutter open. But wait — there’s more.

A second guitar intro and several hushed voices signify an oncoming storm, and in conjunction with the key change and brutal new chord progression, you abruptly punch your woozy pal directly in the gut, amply winding him. Then another one of your sadistic buddies clocks the poor ambushed fool on the back of the head. This ought to bring him down, but if not, feel free to kick him in the shin or the balls or something. You can all take turns bitch-slapping the bitch until he’s officially on the ground. Throw a sack over him, tie it up, and you’re seriously ready to rumble. It’s pistol-whippin’ time.

A few drum breaks will lead into a very aggressive uptempo section, during which I strongly recommend belt-flogging and tire-ironing your now-prisoner. He’ll be pretty damn defeated at this point, and the excessive crying out for mercy may touch you ever-so-slightly in your cold black heart — but don’t give in just yet, you goddamn pussy! A good pistol-whippin’ should never end until the pistol-whippor has had his fill; the pistol-whippee doesn’t get to call the shots. Never forget that.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and everyone eventually deserves a respite. After you’ve no doubt bruised the unfortunate recipient of your “practical joke” black, blue, and motherfucking paisley, you and the other demons should grab that quivering, tied-up sack of whimpering broken bones, run that shit outside, throw it in the trunk of your crappy Dodge Dart, zoom off down the road with a riotous screech of burned-out tires…and take the poor beaten bastard out for breakfast (or fried chicken and waffles, if the sun ain’t shining).

That’ll teach the sonufabitch not to do whip-its in the future — shit is bad for you!

-KW

BURNT BY THE SUN – “Forlani”, from The Perfect Is The Enemy Of The Good (2003)