One day, I hope I become a successful (albeit undeservingly so) rock star, making millions of dollars and enjoying the celebrity afforded by radio stations across the nation playing my mediocre tunes. Perhaps once I achieve this status, I’ll be perfectly poised to write a song about wanting to be a rock star. By doing so, fans all around the country will hear about how I want to be a rock star and turn out to my shows, making my dream come true. Then, once they’ve seen that all it takes to become a rock star is to write a bunch of crappy songs and get everyone to listen to them, and then write about wanting to be a rock star, maybe they’ll want to be rock stars too. So they’ll sing about wanting to be rock stars, and more rock stars will be born.
I truly despise Nickelback.
While I’m on the topic of terrible music, allow me to briefly mention “Hey There Delilah.” Possibly the worst song I’ve ever heard (ranking up there with the likes of the Black Eyed Peas), it pains me to recall line after line of horrific rhyming and the kind of simplistic guitar plucking that even a drunken Van Wilder could rival. Seriously, I think the eight-inch turd I left curled in the American Standard could not only produce those chords if dropped haphazardly onto an acoustic guitar, but it could probably create equivalent lyrics if I cultured it in a petri dish and taught it a few vowels.
If you’re looking for a song that deals with almost the exact same subject matter but does so in a far more eloquent way, try “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service.