We all know that Axl Rose is an anagram of “oral sex” (if you didn’t know that, I’ve just blown your mind). Many of us have heard that Britney Spears is an anagram of “Presbyterians,” but who knows what significance that has. Being somebody who likes words, and who likes taking words apart into letters and then moving those letters around, I’m always unduly amused by anagrams. If you are not amused by anagrams, I suggest that you stop reading this column before you become even less amused than you already are.
Painstakingly, I have crafted these. To my knowledge, few or none have been published before, so I think I can safely consider myself the greatest source for music-related anagrams in the universe.
Prominent jerkoff Pete Wentz has been all the rage lately with his teen-friendly band Fall Out Boy. Surely he’s acquired plenty of tween petz.
And speaking of tween sensations, upon hearing My Chemical Romance I immediately filed singer Gerard Way into the gay drawer.
I’m always amused when misfortune befalls John Mayer; you might say that I enjoy harm.
In the war against shitty pop music, I see Avril Lavigne as a grave villain. I’m not sure how she got a record contract; maybe the old pervs in the industry just saw her as virginal veal.
Though they were hyped like crazy, I found the Arctic Monkeys a little underwhelming. Their sticky romance left naught but a tiny cock smear.
Similarly, I’ve never been a fan of Jack White of The White Stripes. I hope the twit perishes.
With all the boozing and smoking and fighting, Amy Winehouse will never have to worry about her voice becoming a mousey whine.
Neil Young released his album Living with War as an internet stream; I would never have figured him for an online guy. In my opinion, After the Gold Rush pretty much established Neil as the godfather hustler of rock.
Being from Liverpool, Paul McCartney has a bit of a rumply accent. Toward the end, what with the cancer and all, fellow Beatle George Harrison sounded like his throat had taken a hoarse rogering.
I’m a big fan of Lil Wayne, who spits his rhymes with wily élan.
Jay-Z’s debut album Reasonable Doubt was quite listenable, with no laboured beats and unbeatable odors. Generally, I’d say Shawn Carter just chants rawer.
His patronage of young singer Robyn Rihanna Fenty was a bit suspect, though. Did he see her as a blossoming teenage talent or just a horny nearby infant?
Those lucky enough to witness Kanye West’s O-face might witness the glory of the skeet yawn. I shouldn’t make fun; with recent reports claiming that he was repeatedly trounced at Connect Four by Beyoncé, he’s probably having a nasty week.
Speaking of Beyoncé Knowles: damn. If I ever came across a sleeping Beyoncé, she’d probably be obscenely woken.
Dr. Dre (real name André Young) has been dogged by rumors of homosexuality since his days with World Class Wrecking Crew; personally, I dunno re: gay.
Though he’s considered one of the great legends of hip-hop, I’ve never actually been a huge fan of Tupac Shakur. I’ve talked to quite a few hip-hop fans who feel the same, in fact. Is he just massively overrated? Or does he just … uh … suck at rap?
Speaking of rappers and drugs, we all know that Calvin Broadus (aka Snoop Dogg) enjoys a bit of the ol’ reefer now and again. You might say that his life is just one big carnival o’ buds.
And finally, a lot of people dug Soulja Boy for his simple, catchy rhymes, but I think he does … a lousy job.