Instrumental.....hear dem Bengals choking, meek and crappily.....heartbreaking pawn man

I'm in a musical mood, so we're kicking out the jams today by talking a little aural shop...

I've been listening to the soundtrack from the film "The Road" recently, a haunting compilation courtesy of one of music's greatest Australian troubadours, Nick Cave.

Actually, probably music's only Australian troubadour.

If you get the opportunity to, check it out. Even if you haven't seen the film (I haven't), the music portrays the desperation, glimmers of hope and ultimate agony of the story (I have read the book.)

Of course, such a disc got me thinking, as most music does, about how unappreciated and unnoticed instrumental compositions seem to be these days.

If it doesn't have fuck, pussy, ho, or bling in the song, or even words at all for that matter, than it simply doesn't exist to the carnivorous listeners of today.

They want their music like McDonald's — great tasting, quick and easy to consume.

Have you ever really researched what McDonald's makes their food with, though?

Yeah, you guessed it. Shit. Much like what's on the Billboard Top 40 today.

We resemble, philosophically, the alien race from "Independence Day."

Instead of devouring planets, we devour pop culture and its 29 different flavors, then excrete it in an unintelligible mess.

That aside, I decided to compose a "Top Five Best Instrumentals" list that I've been struck dumb by, time and time again. Compare it against yours, just for the hell of it.

I included no jazz, simply because jazz is a glorious realm unto its own.

Da top five....

1. "Orion" — Metallica
2. "God moving over the face of the waters" — Moby
3. "A Warm Place" — NIN
4. "Layla (Piano Exit)" — Derek and the Dominoes
5. "Green Onion" — Booker T and the MG's

Honorable Mentions: "Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth)" — Metallica, "Eruption", "1984" — Van Halen, "Ghosts I-IV" —the entire album by NIN, "Ride of the Valkyries" — Wagner

Alright, enough of me aping John Cusack.

Does anyone know how I can overdub the Bengal's fight song?

Last night's performance against the Steeler's ranked right up there with, well, the entire 43 year history of Bengals football in Cincy.

Only in this town would we have a dark horse Super Bowl contender — I'm wondering if those "experts" were on angel dust at the time they decided that — trip over their own dicks like this team has.

Pundits far better than I have already pummelled the Bengals ineptitude dead, folded the flag on the season and presented it graveside to Bengals fans.

"On behalf of the President of the Cincinnati Bengals and the players of a grateful team, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful patronage you fans have rendered this organization."

"Taps" moans in the distance....and now I'm left to masturbation to fill my Sunday afternoons.

Speaking of broken hearts, the faux-reality/anthropological study TV show "Pawn Stars" is a parade of human disappointment.

And I laugh. Because I've been there and financial misery with its delusions of grand quick-fixes deserves the company of other begging, destitute paupers.

Just this morning, I watched a lunatic expect 25 grand for an 1860 Lincoln presidential campaign ribbon. And I thought this.

"Hey jackass, this isn't the baseball card of Honus Wagner."

It's only Abe Lincoln. Let's get realistic.

Much less to say, he limped home with said ribbon between his emasculated legs, having refused an offer of three thousand dollars.

After it was appraised, by an independent expert, for that very amount.

This twit has been added as another photo for the definition in Webster's of the word "dumbfuck."

What do people truly expect when dealing with the lecherous plankton of the business world known as pawn brokers?

I once was lost in a pawn shop, trying to rid myself of a nice Washburn acoustic guitar that I had dropped $500 on.

I was quickly found in that pawn shop when the greasy fuck offered me $30 for my $500 guitar.

I walked out of that shop smarter and with a gee-tar I'm still fiddling with to this day.

Hopefully these 5150's get straight and figure out another way to score quick green — no, not slinging dope — instead of whoring the detritus of their lives to heartbreaking pawn thugs...

Donate some plasma instead. $30 a pop, two times a week and track marks on your arms that give you instant street cred.

It can't be beat.

Better than trying to hawk that porcelain bedpan, decorated with the Courier and Ives pattern, that your gran-pappy shat it 70 years ago.

Too-da-loo,
Spragoo