I won’t waste too much time on this one because, well, what’s the point? It’s a casual hate, this one, not a poisonous one, though everytime I see him doing that tiresome “I am mean, yes I am — yes yes” pose, the one where the chin is held at the 45 degree angle, I consider how amusing it would be if a baseball bat slammed into his unprotected balls. Granted the talk about his own supposed hilarity and all that, and I guess there’s an argument being advanced that if one worships South Park one worships him, except that I think the brain caliber involved is different. The semi-comparisons to Moliere vis-a-vis misanthropy haven’t helped either, and I suspect that even dead said Frenchman, who had to live with royal whims and murderous aristocrats and the like where young Mr. Mathers sounds more like he only had to worry about the social worker who smelled weird on the one visit, could take the young pup. Bierce wouldn’t have even bothered responding back to him, that’s for sure. The supposedly ‘mad skills’ aren’t there from what I’ve heard; he just sounds like about most of the frat guys around here — from wildly different backgrounds, I should note — who pretty much all deserve to be killed, while he’s only getting airplay on certain stations because he’s white, so to hell with it. Nick Cave does funnier ‘ha! I killed my girlfriend’ tunes, and the one vague note of interest was that “Stan” song, except nothing’s more annoying than a dumbfuck who, having told an obvious joke, then proceeds to explain the joke in pointless detail. Had the song ended up in a murder/suicide pact, I would have been the one guy standing next to the carnage who shrugs, says something flip to the Nearby Friend with the Cool Haircut, and wanders off whistling in a blaze of lens flares and rotating camera angles around slow motion bullets while CGI scripts collapse around me in an orgy of Roman Empire style decadence. This while a Slipknot song plays, I’m sure.

Alternately, maybe I just hate Detroit.