Uh-huh I always wanted to do this, Right here, right now, In my bedroom. I’m playing two chords, With an unearned air of confidence. Especially this one, This here is a special chord. I played it once when I was trying to play a different chord. Technically, one of the notes is wrong, But that never stopped me before. You’re gonna hear a lot of wrong notes tonight, And see these hands get sweaty. So get ready.

“You Never Know Where Love Will Find You” By Rhune Kincaid Uh. Plenty of Fish, OKCupid, fulfill my wish, Bring me a classy dish, Who is educated on important issues. Match and Tindr, find me a winner. I’ve got an extra ticket to the ballet, So she’s gotta be graceful in every way. Then I sit back, And wait for those profile pics to roll in, Sometimes it takes a little while, but then… She’s got a tattoo of a spider on her tits, And the spider is eating a baby. I guess she doesn’t like babies. I can work with that. Oh, I can work with anything. She’s putting out cigarettes on her eyelids. I guess she doesn’t like eyelids. I can work with that. Oh, I can work with anything. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her smile reminds you, Of Tremors, not the first one, but the sequel that doesn’t have Kevin Bacon: Tremors 2: Aftershocks You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her eyes remind you, Of a colony of ants building hills out of meth rocks. Oh, I’m not letting this ticket go to waste. I’m taking it to a dark place. Craigslist. M4F. Are you capable of composing an outfit that doesn’t rely on a tube top? You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her hair reminds you of the Martian puppets from Sesame Street. Yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, nope, no, no. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if holding her hands reminds you of gutting cold fish on boy scout camping trip. Ooh, And the blurry pictures and the redeye. It’s 2017 why can’t you learn to work your camera phone? Ooh, Can’t wait until dating sites have photo tags, So when you post a picture with your hot friends, I can ask them out instead. I can’t tell who you are. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her voice reminds you of your mom. Oh God, she sounds exactly like my mom. And she wants to know my middle name. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her toes remind you, Of the crinkle cut fries in a Burger King Value Meal. Who wears sandals to the ballet? You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her kiss reminds you of the Tattooine Sarlacc pit, You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, And you don’t need a girl to grind you, Because when you’re drunk enough, It doesn’t really matter anymore. Call Bono, I think I found what I’ve been looking for. I just hope Trevor likes Stravinsky. Stravinsky is a guy who writes operas. Or he did. He’s dead now.

“Lesbionicle Chronicle” by Rhune Kincaid and Diana Van De Kamp Diana: I’ve got Joanie from Mad Men in my sights, And Kate Upton in a lingerie pillow fight. I bet Mila Kunis would be fun in the sack, And who do I have to bang for a chance to grab ScarJo’s rack? I wanna brush Olivia Wilde’s hair. Sofia Vergara that’s a mighty fine pair. But that’s like saying that the sky is blue, And Emily Ratajkowski, that doesn’t rhyme with anything. I’m not gay, But I’m watching the WBNA, And I’m flipping through Maxim all day. Rhune: She wants to switch teams if you know what I mean, She wants to switch teams. Yeah. Diana: I wanna get to second base, With Natalie Dormer’s face, I wanna send Megan Fox, To my penalty box, I’ve seen some Olivia Munn, but, I want it all, I wanna bounce Beyonce’s butt like a basketball. Rhune: What? Diana: I’m not gay, But I’m joining the LPGA. And I’m on Mr. Skin all day. Rhune: She wants to switch teams for a couple of screams. She wants to switch sides for a couple of rides. She wants to switch squads and bang some broads. Yeah. Diana: What about you Rhune? Are there any fellas you’d like to get busy with in the bedroom? Rhune: Uh, not really. Diana: Well, what about Matthew McConaughey? He’s so handsome. Rhune: I might bang his little butthole? Diana: Oh, dear. What about Johnny Depp? He seems real smart. Rhune: I might bang his little butthole? Diana: Do you have any more romantic fantasies? I feel like I’ve been really specific about mine. What about Channing Tatum? Rhune: I’d bang his little butthole. If she gets her alone, she’ll try to bone Emma Stone. Diana: I don’t need no wang to bang Jessica Lang. And hump Halle Berry’s boulders, Rhune: Or Cobie Smoulders shoulders. Diana: Have a spark in the dark with Emilia Clark. Rhune: Khaleesi! Yabba-dabba, Wilma, Betty, yabba-dabba-doo. Diana: Zooey Deschanel! Rhune: And Emily too. She squeals just to feels up Jessica’s Biels Diana: On a scavenger hunt for Emily Blunt’s cu… Rhune: Woah! Diana: What? Rhune: I gotta put one of those stickers on the album now. Diana: Oh. Oops. I’m not gay, But I’m down for some field hockey. And I don’t even know how to play. Rhune: She wants to switch teams if you know what I mean, She’s giving up “His and Hers” for scissors. She’s switching to babes to tickle some labes. Saphy, saphy. This is a Lesbionicle Chronicle.

“Beginningageddon of the Endamageddon: A Meme Is Born” By Rhune Kincaid Mrs. Emerson: Mr. Cliverson? Rhune Kincaid is here to see you Mr. Cliverson: Send him right in. Rhune, Rhune, Rhune! It’s great to see you. Pull up a chair! Everyone here at the record label has been dying to meet you! I’m going to spell it out. We want to sign you. We love your first two albums, and we want to help you make the third one the best one yet. Just tell me what you… Say… What’s in the briefcase? Is that what you’ve been working on? Is that It? I don’t suppose I could… I... well… You’re probably not ready to show it to anyone but, could I? Maybe just a little sneak peek? What is this? It’s awful. It’s horrible. But I can’t look away. What is it doing it’s? I feel like it’s taking something from me. A piece of me. Why would you? Why would anyone? I can’t take it any longer! You can’t… You can’t just leave it here. What am I going to do? I can’t… I just… I feel dumber and dirtier just to have seen it. I feel broken inside. Broken. And yet, I can’t stop myself from opening it one more time. It probably wasn’t even real. It couldn’t be. I’ll just… I’ll just… I’ll just check. Nope. It’s real. Oh no, oh no. Mrs. Emerson, I need you! Mrs. Emerson: Yes, Mr. Cliverson Mr. Cliverson: I need you to throw this briefcase out the window. Mrs. Emerson: You got it boss. Will that be all? Mr. Cliverson: Yes, thank you. I’ll like a moment alone, please. Hm.

Sitting down to my favorite show’s season finale, Because I finally found a program with themes up my alley. It’s got the twists and the turns and the character arc, But the suspense is best when I’ve been kept in the dark. I don’t go to advanced screenings. I don’t read insider news. I don’t speculate on casting calls, Bitch, I skip the previews. It must be hard to keep your big mouth shut, So don’t say who zombies got or which contestants got cut. If you tell me what’ll happen, it’ll spoil my joy, Soil your boy, If we were little kids, you’re breaking my toys. So if you like to show that you’re in the know with info on my shows that’s too on the nose, Then I know where your kind of bozo goes. On my block list. On Twitter. Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, Someone’s about to get their feelings hurt, Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, Because someone doesn’t know how a narrative reveal works. Derp. You’re the worst with your thirst, To know things first. An appendix full of spoilers, About to burst. You’ve been called out, But you still don’t get it. You still don’t hesitate, And you still don’t regret it. The emotional effect on me? I’m devastated. I feel like Tom Brady’s balls; Deflated. I get it, I get it, I get it, I get it, I do. I like to talk about television too, But the difference between gus like me and you? Is that I stop and take a minute and I check the room. Are we all caught up on Madame Secretary? No? That’s allright. I can keep it to myself. You know I want to feel the feeling of surprise, You know I want to see this with my own eyes, You know I’m getting angry when my melody rise, And you know I get upset when I miss Pretty Little Liars. Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, Someone’s about to get their feelings hurt. Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, It’s like you threw up dinner on my dessert. Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, You’re being an Ernie, Now I’m pissed off like Bert. Let’s take it home now. The way you spoil things I think you’re trying to make me crazy, Consistently spoiling me, continues to amaze me. There’s so many ways to stay away from saying things that’ll ruin my day; Go outside, read a book, or schedule your social media for 10 years into the God Damn future if you can’t keep your fat little fingers off the keyboard. Yeah.

“He’s That Guy” By Rhune Kincaid He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He’s the funny villain or the sidekick friend. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. Maybe someday, he’ll live until the end. He’s wasting bullets like crazy; Hitting everything but the other guys. It’s not that he’s lazy, He just forgets to take aim while he’s cracking wise. I hope that pun was worth it. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He steals the show in the scenes that he’s in. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He could play a hero if he had a butt chin. His acting classes all suck, Because they never teach him how to duck. He doesn’t complain, he just gets the job done, And when the credits roll, they call him “Dead Guy #1.” He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. His mom and dad are so damn proud. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He’s easy to pick out of a crowd. With a rifle. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He needs a bonus life like a video game. He’s that guy who gets shot in the movies. He’s got his own chalk outline on the Walk of Fame. But they forgot his name.

The Sun is Gonna Blow Up by Rhune Kincaid Space. The cosmos. The celestial bodies that grant us life. Have lives themselves. You’re playing outside with your buddies on the street. You’re loving the summertime and soaking up the heat. The rising temperatures are no cause for alarm. That’s just the apocalypse trying to keep you warm. Because the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Some day sooner than you might think, You’re gonna want sunglasses and an ice cold drink. Everyone you know is gonna die. Yeah, your momma and your daddy and your granny gonna fry. Invite the neighbors over. It’ll be a red giant, but not a supernova. When the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Now scientists hypothesize that we could buy some time, By burning up Jupiter in the sun. We’d have to push it with a rocket ship the size of the Earth, And when it got there, it would be too late. Thanks for nothing science. Scientists are stupid. The sun’s just gonna blow up, And that means, You can talk back to your teacher and ignore your mom and dad, Santa’s burning too, so know one cares if you’ve been bad. Fuck homework; play Nintendo while you can, Or grab a beer, sit back, and get yourself a tan. Because when the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Everybody all together now. The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Like a grease fire, like a molotov, like the Hindenburg, like Napalm, Like the time I drove to Arizona and forgot to put my sunscreen on, You’re gonna burn, Like a pasty white guy in the desert. The sun will make toast of you like Hiroshima, Like Ghost Rider, it’ll roast the ghost of you, Like a Human Torch that never “Flames Off,” The climate’s gonna be the opposite of Hoth. Like the stare you’d get from Superman if you walked in while he was jerking off, You’re gonna burn. That’s right kids. Fucking burn.

Diana: What about Chris Hemsworth? Rhune: I might bang his little butthole. Diana: Oh, ok. What about joseph Gordon-Levitt? He seems like he’d be really fun to like, do philanthropic projects with or something. Rhune: Um, I’d bang his little butthole. Watch out for that snake. Diana: I hate snakes. What about Harrison Ford? Rhune: No, no. Diana: Really? He’s so handsome and classic. Rhune: Just kidding, I’d bang his little butthole. Diana: Really, Rhune? There’s so much more to life than banging buttholes. I can’t think of any more boys right now. Rhune: You ran out? Diana: Yeah, my thinking cap’s not on hard enough. Ow. Rhune: Don’t touch that cactus. Don’t. Diana: That’s like when somebody hands you a hot plate of food and tells you “It’s hot, don’t touch it,” you have to touch it anyway just to understand what their version of hot is. Rhune: Hot means hot. We should go around this little town. Diana: It’s cute. Rhune: It looks like trouble. Diana: I love trouble. Speaking of trouble, what would you do with Robert Downy Jr.? Rhune: Bang his little butthole.

“Risky Business” By Rhune Kincaid Risky Business, I came to bear witness. Pull out the Blu-Ray, it’s time to hit this, Overlooked gem of the 80’s scene, A contemplation of the American Dream. It’s a criticism of capitalism, An expose on Puritanism, A condemnation of indecision, And a writer/director’s singular vision. It’s the story of a young man’s sexual awakening, More than Tom Cruise in briefs and booty-shakening, More than just a comedy, more than good fun, More than just another chance to see the “Tom Cruise Run”. He runs so hard, but his hands stay so straight. You look like you could use a synopsis. Joel’s a young man with expressionist anxiety, Overwhelmed by the pressures of society. Open on a shower-based nocturnal emission. Cut to parents demanding Ivy League admission. Pursuit of perfection is harshing Joel’s erection. With parents away he calls Rebecca De Mornay. He racks up a debt because he’s young and dumb and horny. She’s a delusional illusion. They share a windy fusion, She purloins him from pursuing his preferred institution. He’s cashing out bonds to pay for blondes, But before you know it, he’s got a brothel going on. He’s not very discreet, there’s a pimp he must defeat, While he falls in love with this angel from the street. In a turn of serendipity, the kind you find in 1983, The recruiter recognizes enterprising ingenuity. And that’s pretty much the plot. But if you’ll allow me to present three themes and observations, I think you’ll find yourself in agreement with me that Risky Business is a film of weight, depth, and complexity. With the exception of one symbolic crack, All that was broken has been put back. Joel’s life is safe and seemingly on track, But that beaten path? Looking pretty whack. Potential disrupted, or innocence corrupted? For all his rebellion, he’s still going to Princeton, Pursuing a passion back to where he had begun, Is it freedom or a new prison Joel has won? And don’t go pretending some romantic happy ending. Fawned and conned, Lana wrecked his life and got his stuff pawned. She made him man of the hour, But she cut and ran when things turned sour. Was she part of the plan? Was it love or a scam? Were the pimp and the gun and the car chase planned? They can’t be together, but they can be controlled. Lives like furniture; bought and sold. And who’s to say it’s not another fanciful dream, Unattainable perfection, cloaked in steam. Gone insane with the SATs to blame, And where’d they know how to find that empty train, To have sex in? I’m asking for, For me. Why’s is all gotta be so tough? Sometimes you gotta just say, “What the fuck?” Yeah, “what the fuck?”

“Kiss Me Now” By Rhune Kincaid I don’t know if I’ll still exist after the big earthquake hits. I don’t know where I’m gonna land when the big one hits Los Angeles. I don’t know where I’m gonna be when California’s floating in the sea, So kiss me now. Kiss me now. We don’t know when, and we don’t know where, But after every little bitty one, you get a lot of biggie scared. If seismology is what you know, then you know, We don’t know how many kisses you’ve got left to blow, So kiss me now. Kiss me now. So the big one is what’s called a megathrust earthquake, and specifically we’re going to worry about one along the Cascadia Subduction Zone. You know, the sloping fault line that runs between the Juan de Fuca and the North American seismic plates. Because, what has preceded practically every major San Andreas Fault earthquake? That’s right. A little bit of jiggling along that Cascadia Subduction Zone. Now, speaking of that San Andreas Fault, it is divided into three sections, the Northern, Central, and Southern, which happens to be where I’m recording this song. Now, the other two sections have suffered a megathrust earthquake in the last century and a half, but this one has been building up pressure for 300 strong. That’s a lot of pressure. That’s a lot of tension. That’s a lot of friction. It sounds like someone needs a megathrust. So if someone’s looking you in the eye with a bit of a twinkle and licking their lips and you get the idea that their intentions might be this side of smoochy, you open up that doorway, And you stand in it. Because even if you live you’ll end up on a dirty gurney, In a sinkhole of a hospital that’s understaffed, Because all the doctors live in Malibu. And they went first. So as you try to wriggle out of a mudslide, Or free yourself from underneath a bridge, You’ll be thinking “Why’d I take things slow? So traditional?” It would warm my heart a smidge if Rhune were here and he would, Kiss me now. Kiss your Mr. before you fall through a fissure. Kiss me now. Just like Titanic only volcanic. Kiss me now. Here’s a tsunami, so plant one on me. Kiss me now. Because I’ll probably be dead. That’s right. Yeah, I’ll probably be.

11. @rhunekincaid By Rhune Kincaid rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 9 Jun 2012 Don't know if my upstairs neighbors are in a "50 Shades of Grey" situation or not, but I'm thinking at least 47. rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid Sep 10 2014 "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, learn a real instrument" by Snob Dylan rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid Feb 4 2014 I like any rap song where the background guys all go "Heyyyy" with a descending glissando. Magnifique! rhunekincaid‏ @rhunekincaid 25 Apr 2016 If prunes are dried plums then WTF IS PRUNE JUICE? rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 2 May 2012 Wow, it's already been a year since the royal wedding?!?!? Still don't give a fuck. rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 16 May 2015 I go to the dollar store so much that I now think of the regular grocery store as the "wildly varying prices store." rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid 21 Apr 2015 How come when people take selfies with groups of people we don't call them groupies oh that's why. rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid · Aug 2 2014 Average human penis = 5.8". Average gorilla penis = 1.5". Dawn of the Rise of what now? rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid · Nov 22 2014 The cool thing about @Tinder is you don't waste time on people who don't like you. The uncool thing about @Tinder is that nobody likes you. rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid May 22 2015 Sometimes I think my cats are like my little babies, but then I'm like "Man, they have mustaches, babies don't have mustaches." rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 17 Nov 2013 Being a person is harder than it looks. rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid · Sep 1 2014 The best thing about leaked celebrity nudes is how they reassure me that even rich, successful people suffer from unsightly, cluttery homes. rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 17 Mar 2013 Just be yourself unless, y'know, you've got a lot of undesirable qualities. rhunekincaid‏ @rhunekincaid 19 Apr 2013 When @tearsforfears gets so drunk they decide to go hunting, they turn into Beers for Deers. rhunekincaid‏ @rhunekincaid 1 Jul 2013 When @tearsforfears makes jokes at the expense of other bands, they become Jeers for Peers. rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 31 Jan 2015 When @tearsforfears loudly proclaim that they are not “butt men” they become sneers for rears. rhunekincaid ‏@rhunekincaid 25 Apr 2015 When @tearsforfears cast a sidelong glance upon a herd of cattle, they become leers for steers. rhunekincaid‏ @rhunekincaid 12 Nov 2016 Sad that @tearsforfears hasn't engaged w/ my ingenious tweets re: how their name can be made 2 rhyme w/other things. rhunekincaid @rhunekincaid Jul 21 2016 My CD is now available at Amoeba music. In fact, if you find where I hid it, they'll probably let you walk out with it for free.

“Two Cats” By Rhune Kincaid This is a song about my household where I live. Yo, I got two cats. So f--ppin’ what? I’ve got two cats. So f--ppin’ what? I’ve got two cats. So f--ppin’ what? I’ve got two f--ppin’ cats. Yo, I’m a grown man, and I’ve got two cats, Who both refused to sing on this track. I put this mic up in their little face, And they turned and ran ‘cause they’ve got nothing to say. You think ‘cause I have two cats that I won’t start a fight? You don’t know me man, but that shi-- is right. I gotta get home and feed them their dinners. Yo, I got two cats; one’s skinny, one’s chubby. I’ve got two cats, and they both f--ppin’ love me. I’ve got two cats with cuddly little faces. I’ve got two cats who pee in weird places. I’m not a fan of that. Yo, the orange one is Benji, the white one is Crush, That shi-- is kinda flipped because the pound f--pped up. The humane society is the one to blame, But I asked them both, and they both like their names. When Crush was a baby, he looked like a bird, With no f--ppin’ feathers and no f--ppin’ fur. But now that sh-- is long. It gets on all my stuff. I can’t leave the house until I’m covered in fluff. And Benji doesn’t know the meaning of drought. He wants to drink from the sink until that shi-- runs out. Big belly, tiny head. It’s hard to carry him. When he gets excited his tail vibrates like a theremin. Like a theremin. I got two cats, but that don’t mean I ain’t tough, I got two cats. Yo, flea baths get rough. When it comes time to find who the person who’s got your back is, Would you rather they was covered in tattoos or scratches?

Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there. Say, I wanted to clear up something I said earlier. I know that you probably know that when I say, “The sun is gonna blow up,” I don’t mean it’s going to explode. I mean it’s going to slowly expand and consume everything in its path. See, the sun stays hot by burning its own mass, but eventually it will run out of mass to burn. It’s going to cool down, actually, but that means it’ll start to expand and devour everything it touches like the atmosphere, space rocks, Mercury, small stuff, but eventually Earth. And when you’re trying to teach kids about their fiery future, you’ve gotta be catchy and concise, so… I’ve gotta take that call. It was really nice to see you though. Thanks for stopping by!

Science can’t explain it. No containment cap can contain it. Like an oil spill, baby. Like an oil spill, baby. My love is like an oil spill; It’s ugly, it’s dirty and it’s starting to spread. My love is like an oil spill; Your wildlife is hurting and your oceans are dead. It’s worth more if you keep it. It’s worthless if you dump it, But if somebody spills it, You should bring your rig and pump it. Like an oil-spill; It’s rushing and gushing and it’s leaving a slick. My love is like an oil spill; It’s oozing and sploozing and it’s too deep for your dipstick. It’s priceless and it’s rare. You can’t find that kind of love by drilling any guy, anywhere. It’s unrefined but if you’re up for the challenge, It’s the kind of love you can guzzle by the gallon. Exxon, BP, Shell, Valero, All wish they could get a share of, This love colossal. It ain’t no fossil. Drilling down derricks on a double-dare, yo. Send electric cars packing. Screw the EPA’s backing. If supplies run low, then girl you know, We can always vote on fracking. Like an oil spill, baby. Like an oil spill, baby.

“Write About Butts (Right About Butts)” By Rhune Kincaid I thought a lot about these chords, And how to make them sound unique and full, So they’d sound good when I was playing them all alone. I thought about the rhythms and the melodies I’d write, But all along I was focused on making the wrong things tight. See there’s a problem with my methods. There’s a flaw in my songs. And the flaw is that these lyrics are not about butts. I should write about butts. Write about butts, write about butts, write about butts. If you want to make money with pop music you write about butts, write about butts, write about… Why write about love? Why write about war? All along I was sitting on the answer, When I should have been sitting on my butt writing songs about butts because that’s what butts and songs are for. And when I make my fortune, I’ll say, I was right about about butts, right about butts. I finally wrote about butts and got rich off butts. I was right about butts, right to write about butts, I can write about butts. And if you don’t like my butt song, you can kiss my. Kiss my.

Diana: It’s a real nice night out here on the river, huh, Rhune? Rhune: You don’t have to… Diana: What about Jason Sudeikis? He’s got that funny and kinda hot thing going for him. Rhune: Yeah, I’d bang his little butthole. Diana: Really? We’ve been discussing this forever and that’s all you say you ever want to do. Rhune: We should go around this little island. Diana: It looks nice. Rhune: I think it might have monkeys. Diana: I love monkeys. Rhune: Bad monkeys. Diana: I love bad monkeys too. Speaking of bad monkeys, Wes Bentley is a bad monkey. Rhune: I’m not sure everybody knows who Wes Bentley is. Diana: They should! American Beauty… Rhune: He’s in car ads. Diana: He is in car ads too, and those eyebrows. He could just seduce you with those eyebrows. Rhune: I’ve got eyebrows. Diana: You do. Rhune: I don’t need. Diana: You don’t need no Wes Bentley? Rhune: I don’t need his eyebrows. Diana: Fine. Rhune: Know what I mean? Diana: No.

“Another Awful Christmas Song” By Rhune Kincaid Oh, here we go. Yeah it’s Christmas time, you gotta put something on the fireplace. I’m not talking about stockings. No. If you’ve got kids I’m thinking tripwires, security cameras and a couple of cans of mace. ‘Cuz you’re about to have a break-in. Yeah, a yuletide home invasion. Think about it. What grown man manipulates kids with rewards and shaming? What grown man accepts payment in milk and cookies? What grown man wears pajamas 24/7? What grown man lives in a desolate wasteland without extradition? A pedofile. Film directors and pedophiles Think about it. What grown man employs a workforce entirely under the height of 4-foot tall? Yeah, you get where I’m going about the elves. What grown man makes handmade toys in the 21st century? What grown man refuses to visit your house unless your kids are asleep? A pedophile. Yeah, a magical breaking-and-entering pedophile. Pedo-pedo-pedo-pedo-pedo-pedo-pedo-pedo, Pedophile. Don’t sit on that lap you don’t know where it’s been. Oh, I guess except around the fucking world attached to a pedophile. Pedophile, a very merry pedophile, pedophile, immortal elven pedophile. Pedophile. Oh, Santa Claus, you sure remind me of the common pedophile.

You probably already know this in your heart, but diamonds and diamond engagement rings are bullsh*t. You might not know why, and you might not be able to explain it to someone who is desperately begging you to give them one, but you know it. Or maybe you’re on the other side of the spectrum and you think the tradition of giving diamond engagement rings is something hallowed, historical, and healthy. Dead f*cking wrong, my friend. It’s a modern development, a dirty one, and one invented not by our venerable ancestors, but by a devilishly clever marketing firm, and not to symbolize your everlasting love, but to make a quick buck on a worthless resource. And in case it gets lost in the shuffle, I want to introduce the villains right off the bat: De Beers. aka De Beers Consolidated Mines, Ltd., aka The De Beers Group of Companies, aka The Syndicate, aka Diamond Trading Company, it’s all the same thing. It’s the cabal that, until recently, controlled the entirety of the diamond trade from mine to market to aftermarket. So let’s start by examining the age of the tradition, and this riddle: How did the lower classes of previous generations and agrarian cultures (who pretty much lived hand-to-mouth) ever scrounge up the discretionary cash to buy diamond rings? Well, they didn’t. The diamond engagement ring as a unilateral phenomenon started in the late 1930s, but it really took hold in the 1950s when we were already entranced by baseball, bikinis, and the boob tube. We invented manned flight, atom bombs, and duct tape before we fell for the diamond scam. F*cking slinkies were popular before diamond engagement rings. It’s a thoroughly modern and thoroughly recent idea. It is not the way it’s always been. Which brings me to another misconception: scarcity. Let’s get cosmic for a minute.There is a star in the constellation Centaurus that has gone White Dwarf and crystallized itself. It’s a floating space diamond that weighs 10 billion, trillion, trillion carats. There’s more diamond floating out there than there is moon. But when it comes to Earthbound rock, we’ll need some Earthbound history to understand. See, diamonds weren’t widely available and before the 1880s, they were truly rare and precious stones reserved for millionaires and monarchs. That all changed when a buttload of diamonds was found around Kimberley, South Africa. A man named Cecil Rhodes had the foresight to realize that putting that many rocks on the market would crash the price of diamonds, which he suddenly owned the vast majority of. He began to consolidate interests and regulate the supply, and so, De Beers Consolidated Mines was born. There may have been some murders and kidnappings, but whatever. By releasing only small amounts at a time, they were able to create (or rather maintain) the illusion of scarcity and preserve pricing, but based on mining estimates and geological projections, diamonds are probably the most common gem on Earth. So diamonds aren’t actually rare. They’re hoarded. So why should anyone care? In the late 1930s, the diamond industry was in very real danger of petering out. The diamond engagement fad had very little traction, and diamonds were considered a nice-but-not-all-that-precious-gem. And that’s where the truly Machiavellian genius of these motherf*ckers kicks in. Or, more precisely, the motherf*ckers at a marketing firm called N.W. Ayer. They were hired in 1938 because De Beers had just found yet another sh*tload of diamonds in South Africa and needed to guilt, trick, cajole, and finagle someone, anyone into buying their rapidly depreciating stash of crystallized carbon. Enter the most successful marketing campaign since organized religion. You’ve probably heard this campaign’s greatest hit: “Diamonds Are Forever.” Let’s just ignore the fact that they’re not and focus on what N.W. Ayer was trying to say with that motto. This is from a 1947 strategy plan for a De Beers marketing campaign: “We are dealing with a problem in mass psychology. We seek to … strengthen the tradition of the diamond ring -- to make it a psychological necessity." They sold the idea that any man who loved a woman owed her a diamond ring to symbolize and solemnify that love. The bigger the ring, the bigger the love. The bigger the commitment of cash, the bigger the commitment of the heart. They would have you believe the union would last as long as the life of the diamond (ostensibly forever) even though diamonds can be shattered or incinerated. Above all, they’d have you believe that this is all born out of tradition, but it’s not tradition. It’s just marketing. And frighteningly effective marketing at that. De Beers didn’t want to exclude the couples who, financially speaking, had no business buying expensive jewelry, so they created a sliding scale. The “tradition” of spending one month’s salary on an engagement ring isn’t really a “tradition” at all; it’s the arbitrary minimum De Beers set for masculine respectability. You might not think they make dicks that small, but 1950s America took the bait so thoroughly that De Beers bumped it up to two months’ salary. That went so well, they tried to make it three. And can you blame them? Whether out of guilt, insecurity, or ego, American men were paying whatever devastating percentage of their income De Beers demanded, because well, now American women were demanding it. At the heart of De Beers’ campaign was the need to convince women from low and middle income situations that upper class women were doing the diamond ring thing. They weren’t until De Beers paid them to. From a 1947 strategy brief: “We spread the word of diamonds worn by stars of stage and screen, by wives and daughters of political leaders, by any woman who can make the grocer's wife and the mechanic's sweetheart say ‘I wish I had what she has.’” And did they ever. They planted news stories about the “trend towards diamonds” on radio even though there was no trend. They created a service that distributed photos of celebrity engagement rings (bribed onto celebrity fingers) for newspapers to print so that the common woman could have something to aspire to. They sold lectures to schools teaching young girls the virtues of diamond ownership. F*cking schools. So the middle class saw staged images of the upper class embracing what was actually a completely overpriced and useless product and bought said product to emulate wealth. In other words, diamonds were the Beats Headphones of the 1940s. So have you ever seen a commercial where the poor, clueless guy is happy to find the helpful diamond retailer that's going to save the day? That’s like asking Cookie Monster where you should hide your cookies. Of course you’re gonna get f*cked. And De Beers wants men carrying out this solo mission. It’s divide and conquer. Listen to this observation from a 1978 marketing analysis: “Women are in unanimous agreement that they want to be surprised with gifts.... They want, of course, to be surprised for the thrill of it. However, a deeper, more important reason lies behind this desire.... ‘freedom from guilt.’" The marketing zeitgeist has women craving this thing that they intrinsically know is stupid. Needless to say, this marketing agency retained their client, and it’s a good thing, because cut to the 1970s, and De Beers needed N.W. Ayer more than ever. See, up until the 1960s, De Beers had sold the idea that bigger diamonds were better symbols of love. The more mass they moved, the more they made. That all changed when a massive sh*tload of itty-bitty diamonds was discovered in Siberia in the late 1960s. De Beers moved quickly to align with America’s least favorite country at the time, the Soviet Union, to hush up the discovery and find a strategy to distribute rocks that were, when considered within the reigning paradigm, sh*tty. They invented a new marketing campaign and grading system that emphasized concepts that no one had previously cared about: quality, color, clarity, and cut. By applying their made up standards to their new find, they could sell sh*tty Soviet diamonds for the same amount as their bigger (but still sh*tty) African diamonds. Speaking of new finds, South Africa isn’t the only country that produces diamonds anymore. De Beers was unable to control new deposits found in Australia in the 1980s, which shrunk their share, but your chances of finding a new ring that didn’t go through one cartel or the other are pretty slim,: about 4% and shrinking. And if you find that 4%, chances are you just found yourself a blood diamond. Also known as conflict diamonds, this small supply came mostly from other parts of Africa. See, when you are a rebel army, in say, Sierra Leone, it’s hard to get a credit card to buy weapons and fund your war machine. This is where transparent chunks of carbon come in very handy. The diamond funded Civil War in Sierra Leone killed 75,000, displaced millions, and devastated the country to the point where it is still almost entirely dependent on foreign aid. As political pressures shined a light on the violence surrounding conflict diamonds, De Beers capitalized by characterizing all competing diamonds as being conflict diamonds. This allowed them to charge premiums on their “Conflict-Free” diamonds. Now controlling only 66% of the supply, De Beers positioned itself as controlling 100% of the “Conflict-Free” diamonds. And oh yeah, in 2014, the U.S. Department of Labor accused 74 countries including war-torn hellholes like Angola, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Guinea, Liberia, and of course, Sierra Leone of using a significant amount of child and forced labor in pursuit of diamonds. One more thought for pragmatists: Diamonds are expensive as hell but (with the exception of some extremely rare finds) have practically no investment value. Diamond retailers including Tiffany refuse to buy back rings because they’d have to offer so little that it reveals the pricing scam. Since most diamonds are sold at double their retail value but bought back for half of their wholesale value, buying a ring-quality diamond is one of the worst investments you can make. And then there’s Dustin Diamond. The appeal of diamonds is that they're nearly impervious to degradation, but this Diamond has been degrading himself ever since he peaked as Screech on Saved By The Bell. So what can you do if you still want to get married? I’m glad you asked. In the 1970s, Russian scientists were trying to find a way to make cheap synthetic rubies for use in lasers. They accidentally made something nearly indistinguishable from a diamond. It’s called cubic zirconia. It costs five or ten bucks per carat, and it’s made in a lab with microwaves just like Bagel Bites. There’s also a superior (as in harder and maybe classier) alternative called synthetic moissanite. And get this: though the vast majority of cubic zirconia and moissanite stones are created in labs, they both can occur in nature at extremely rare rates. That's right! They're both much more rare than diamonds. Also, moissanite (which costs a couple hundred bucks per carat) was first discovered in a meteorite crater (which is a lot cooler than being plucked off the corpse of some psychopathic warlord). Before the diamond invention, gemless gold and silver bands were popular but would now be mistaken for wedding rings. So, those are out. If your gal has a favorite color, rubies, sapphires, opals, emeralds, and amethysts are all in play, or for the indecisive lady, moissanite can give off a rainbow sheen. In one antiquated custom, men would give their chosen lady a thimble to wear on their thumbs until the wedding. If you like it but value even the slightest feeling of being a free-thinking individual, put a thimble on it. At least it’s unique. And there’s the bizarre dissonance of the diamond invention. De Beers is telling us diamonds are rare, precious, and valuable, but at the same time, they think everyone should have one. That’s the exact opposite ownership ratio of something you’d call rare, precious, and valuable. When everyone gets a diamond ring, no one is special. Before diamonds, the practice of giving engagement gifts was a varied and colorful one. Isn’t it a little sad that everyone is supposed to want the same thing now? And one last question, and it comes in a format your mom may have used to shed light on the fallacies of groupthink: “If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?” Only here, it’s: “If all your friends made a very stupid, financially irresponsible, irreversible, and purely symbolic purchase at the expense of more rational and satisfying purchases to appease cultural expectations and impress someone who already loves them, would you jump too?” Diamonds are for suckers. Diamonds are for idiots. Diamonds are for psychopaths. Diamonds are for narcissists. Diamonds are just a natural phenomenon that happens when you squeeze carbon really hard. Diamonds are for morons.

Rhune: What? What is? Guys? Guys? Wake up. Wake up, guys. Guys; this is it. This is it. Time to go. Time to go, guys. C’mon, let’s go, let’s go. C’mon. Time go go; just like we practiced. C’mon Benji, c’mere, c’mere. Benj! Benji: Meow. Rhune: C’mere, Crush. Crush don’t touch that. Crush: Meow. Rhune: Phone, keys wallet. Phone, keys, wallet. No! C’mere. C’mere. C’mon. C’mon. We gotta go. We gotta go. Does everybody have everything? Everything is packed? Benji: Meow. Rhune: Allright, we’re going out the door now, here we go. Why am I locking the door? C’mon guys, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Oh God. Oh. Oh, that was bad. Woah, hot lava. Aw, that was a really nice building too. This is really it. This is it. Shut up, phone. I know. Ok, ok, ok, get in, get in, get in, ok, ok. Get in, get in, get in, ok. C’mon, in. Inside. Crush: Meow. Rhune: What? Crush: Meow. Rhune: You forgot your stuffed frog? Crush: Meow. Rhune: Aw, that’s your favorite toy. Grr. Ok, I’ll be back. Wait a minute, it’s right there. I can see it through the window. Guys? Let me in. Open. Open. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door. Open the… Ok. Not funny. Not funny. Thank you, but not funny. Shut the door. I’ll get it. I’ll get it. Flip this, switch that. Did somebody make a Hot Pocket? Focus guys. Gravimatron Drive engaged? Benji: Meow. Rhune: No, that one. That button. The button on the right. The flashing one. I put a mouse on it so you’d hit it. Benji don’t eat that plastic. Who left plastic inside the ship? I said no exposed plastic when I built this ship. Oscillizer engaged? Crush: Meow. Rhune: Gyrosonics online? Benji: Meow. Rhune: Magnathrusters locked and loaded? And loaded? Crush: Grr. Rhune: And loaded this time? Crush: Meow. Rhune: Ok, here we go. Mission control? This is the Starship Two Cats requesting permission to launch. Mission Control? Mission? Mission? Fuck it! You look out that window, and you meow if we’re gonna hit something allright? Benji: Meow. Rhune: Here we go. Put on your seatbelts boys, we’re going right now. Launching in 5, 4, 3, fuck it again. Benji: Purr.

The Sun is Gonna Blow Up by Rhune Kincaid Space. The cosmos. The celestial bodies that grant us life. Have lives themselves. You’re playing outside with your buddies on the street. You’re loving the summertime and soaking up the heat. The rising temperatures are no cause for alarm. That’s just the apocalypse trying to keep you warm. Because the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Some day sooner than you might think, You’re gonna want sunglasses and an ice cold drink. Everyone you know is gonna die. Yeah, your momma and your daddy and your granny gonna fry. Invite the neighbors over. It’ll be a red giant, but not a supernova. When the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Now scientists hypothesize that we could buy some time, By burning up Jupiter in the sun. We’d have to push it with a rocket ship the size of the Earth, And when it got there, it would be too late. Thanks for nothing science. Scientists are stupid. The sun’s just gonna blow up, And that means, You can talk back to your teacher and ignore your mom and dad, Santa’s burning too, so know one cares if you’ve been bad. Fuck homework; play Nintendo while you can, Or grab a beer, sit back, and get yourself a tan. Because when the sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Everybody all together now. The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, The sun is gonna blow up, And you’re gonna burn. Like a grease fire, like a molotov, like the Hindenburg, like Napalm, Like the time I drove to Arizona and forgot to put my sunscreen on, You’re gonna burn, Like a pasty white guy in the desert. The sun will make toast of you like Hiroshima, Like Ghost Rider, it’ll roast the ghost of you, Like a Human Torch that never “Flames Off,” The climate’s gonna be the opposite of Hoth. Like the stare you’d get from Superman if you walked in while he was jerking off, You’re gonna burn. That’s right kids. Fucking burn.

“You Never Know Where Love Will Find You” By Rhune Kincaid Uh. Plenty of Fish, OKCupid, fulfill my wish, Bring me a classy dish, Who is educated on important issues. Match and Tindr, find me a winner. I’ve got an extra ticket to the ballet, So she’s gotta be graceful in every way. Then I sit back, And wait for those profile pics to roll in, Sometimes it takes a little while, but then… She’s got a tattoo of a spider on her tits, And the spider is eating a baby. I guess she doesn’t like babies. I can work with that. Oh, I can work with anything. She’s putting out cigarettes on her eyelids. I guess she doesn’t like eyelids. I can work with that. Oh, I can work with anything. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her smile reminds you, Of Tremors, not the first one, but the sequel that doesn’t have Kevin Bacon: Tremors 2: Aftershocks You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her eyes remind you, Of a colony of ants building hills out of meth rocks. Oh, I’m not letting this ticket go to waste. I’m taking it to a dark place. Craigslist. M4F. Are you capable of composing an outfit that doesn’t rely on a tube top? You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her hair reminds you of the Martian puppets from Sesame Street. Yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, nope, no, no. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if holding her hands reminds you of gutting cold fish on boy scout camping trip. Ooh, And the blurry pictures and the redeye. It’s 2017 why can’t you learn to work your camera phone? Ooh, Can’t wait until dating sites have photo tags, So when you post a picture with your hot friends, I can ask them out instead. I can’t tell who you are. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her voice reminds you of your mom. Oh God, she sounds exactly like my mom. And she wants to know my middle name. You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her toes remind you, Of the crinkle cut fries in a Burger King Value Meal. Who wears sandals to the ballet? You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, Even if her kiss reminds you of the Tattooine Sarlacc pit, You gotta keep an open mind, Because you never know when love will find you, And you don’t need a girl to grind you, Because when you’re drunk enough, It doesn’t really matter anymore. Call Bono, I think I found what I’ve been looking for. I just hope Trevor likes Stravinsky. Stravinsky is a guy who writes operas. Or he did. He’s dead now.