Motörhead

Ahem. I say in my stereotypically memish talking to dogs voice "Who's a good boar-tusked hell demon? You are. Yes you are. Where's my snausages? Op! Bit my fingers right off, you naughty little mongrel." 

Motörhead emerged from a particularly violent London alleyway in 1975, right smack dab into the fracas between Punk and Metal. They are of course merely snarling some old-school Rock 'n Roll, but goodness is it gruff and abrasive and downright fun to listen to. I suppose you might have to translate what i consider fun into something like having your eardrums haphazardly regraveled and a seemingly unnecessary umlaut spit upon you, but i hardly see how that's my problem. Plus, it's not the point. Tonight, the point is what i learned from Motörhead's self-titled debut. 

You know how every genre of music has its own preference in terms of yeast-fart beverages? Pop has its cherry wine, Blues has its thoroughgood trifecta of bourbon, scotch, and beer, Country will see your beer and raise you a Tequila, Hip-Hop will pour a $400 bottle of Cristal on the floor, etc. Well, for whatever reason, i just assumed Aerosmith really enjoyed drinking some rot-gut bathtub hootch called Caparonin all night long. 

Turns out there is no such thing. There is a family of heat shock protiens called "chaperonin" that help refold the fitted sheets of sloppy protien houskeeping by gently unfolding them and telling you to try again but focus this time, but i suspect that's a "sha" sound as opposed to a hard C. 

Long story short, turns out there was a train, and that train kept a-rollin' all night long. Who knew? If you're shocked and amazed, then you forgot how incredibly dumb i can be during a bout of intellectual laziness. Why, just the other day i legitimately had to stop my car, pull out my phone, and search for the lyrics to a Nickelback song because i just couldn't in good conscience keep walking around thinking he was singing "sack o' winter." Yep, that's how sloppy-awkward ol' Chad pronounces "San Quentin." 

Anywho, thanks Lemmy. Your body may have returned to earth, but your legacy lives on. 

Drop it. Drop it. Good boy. Let's get these on ice and see if the doctor can still reattach them. Up up. Into the back seat with you. Yes, i'll roll the window down so you can drool acid all across the highway, you big galoot. Sorry, i'd wave but i'm afraid i'll splash blood all over you. Toodles.