You are visitor 147792, a syphilis-carrying vactioning back flipping brown monkey
June 26, 2019

Portishead - Dummy
Smell the sadness!
It's a hard life being sad. If you spend too much time doing the same sad thing, like drawing circles around your eyes in pictures, or dropping your stuffed animals on the floor, eventually you get tired of it and forget to be sad. That's why you have to keep yourself occupied with a wide variety of sadness excercises. A tight regimen focusing on the four major gloomy centers will keep your body dark and dismal to your dreary little core.

This is where Portishead comes in. You see, it's difficult to maintain that level of sadness; there's only so much poetry you can write before you get silly, and you can only mope around the house claiming to have spinal bifidia before you have to get off your fat ass for pizza or pop, both of which will only make your fat ass happy, seeing how it's so fat. Portishead is like the summer camp of melancholy behaviour. It's not like those sissy two-cent camps where you sing songs and make wallets and have your first erotic experience. No sir, it's like those concentration camps for fatties, where your ass gets WORKED, and the only way out of it is the sweet sweet embrace of death. A one hour listening is like 400 sadness chinups followed by 500 sit-ups of dark lonlieness topped off with a nice long purging. If you don't come out of this feeling like Courtney Love looked in the mid-90's YOU HAVE NO SOUL... which, come to think of it may be what you're going for.

At any rate, it's hard to imagine how anybody could be so depressed, yet there it is. I'm not even sure what the problem is, I just know Portishead albums consist of one hour of sad mojo. And that's fine by me.

Davin says:
I wish I were prettier
Even my nipples are crying!