God it makes me sick to write this but I'm Canadian so I have to do my part, we're a very supportive (passive aggressive), laid-back (lazy) people here for the most part. I actually put Mary Margaret O'Hara in a cab after she drank and bought us red wine and made no quirky sense about apartment hunting all night long, oh and cheered for the jocks karaoke-ing like assholes.
Nickleback just signed with LiveNation, same horrendously rich tour/everythingelse production company that signed Madonna and U2 for like 400 bazillion dollars each. Nickleback? whaa??? No numbers have been released, so we don't know how many bazillions they're making. Uggh.
Yes, llamas do cry or die or at least poo when you hear Nickelcrap and if I wake up another morning (late afternoon) and hear Nickleback man-power-singing at my head when I'm hungover and pukey, I may leave Canada for Iraq. At least our lovely Celine doesn't seem to know what she's doing or how she looks as she so innocently rock-scowls and air guitars in Vegas (see Carl Wilson's book Celine Dion's Let's Talk about Love ; great book, a little long but beginning and end are really entertaining, especially about poor Elliot Smith at the Oscars--only Celine reached out and gave him a hug as he cowered, I wish more people had done that, though her titanic love didn't help in the end).
Plus, Celine gratifies all the secretaries and medical insurance claims adjusters and call centre reps in the world. Setting their nipples akimbo. We need call centre reps' nipples erect. You should feel the sexy static when you call to complain about your lousy-ass life and measly-ass problems. Call center reps need love too, toggling between your file and Yahoo personals all day. Trust me, call centre rep is right above air traffic controller and Nickleback listener on the Most Stressful Jobs That End in Suicide List.
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