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I love the smell of subpoena
in the morning.
As you may have read, the mighty Recording Industry Association
of America (RIAA) has finally come to its senses and started
suing the holy living fuck out of 261 Internet freeloaders.
It took them long enough to finally find the balls to stand
up to the wife and kick her ne'er-do-well alcoholic brother
off the couch before he eats the last of the Nutella and Marshmallow
Fluff.
I can't tell you how much money my new electroclash/pots-n-pans
band, Hipster Douchebag, has lost in royalties to the file-stealing
world. Let's just say that the gold fixtures on the hot tub
in the third floor library of the Hollywood compound are only
10 karat gold. If I want to soak surrounded by the calming
opulence of the 24K, I have to take the private elevator all
the way up to the roof deck and expose my delicate skin to
the harsh LA clime. And my live-in elevator attendant, while
quite limber and always game for a quick toss as I'm in transit
between floors, has an annoying tendency to try and talk to
me about her day once my needs have been met. So instead I
harumph and suffer the indignity of the third floor "gold."
If only the legion pimple-faced thieves of Kazaa and Grokster
would spend their allowance on our $8.99 maxi-single cover
version of that new Beyonc?© song (the name of which
escapes me at the moment, but man alive is it catchy!), the
LCD screen in my Expedition might have a 120-hour TiVo instead
of the woefully inadequate 40-hour box. Don't these shortsighted
digital filchers understand that the B-side is a remix of
the single with a drum machine instead of live drums? I spell
it V-A-L-U-E.
It's about time we started getting tough on crime. I've gone
on the record as being tough on criminals. Once, a tip from
me led the loss-prevention team at my local pharmacy from
surrendering a pack of strawberry Big League Chew to the dishonest
hands of a shifty-eyed 12-year-old. I offered to gnaw off
the child's index finger and spit it in the face of the girl's
mother, whose inadequate parenting had led us to that unfortunate
crossroads in the waif's life. But the security guard let
me kick her in the shins after Mom offered to pay for the
gum. I don't often visit the lawless badlands that the pharmacy
has since become. Their spinelessness in the face of their
certain economic ruin makes it impossible for me to enjoy
my egg cream while flipping through the latest issue of Wallpaper.
I guess there's little else to do but wait for the next round
of RIAA lawsuits. The guys from Metallica called me to invite
me over to watch the first trial on Court TV next month. Lars
is going to make popcorn. I'm not a huge fan of their music,
but we have to stick together in these dangerous days if Hipster
Douchbag is going to claw its way up the TRL charts and into
my third "Cribs" episode. I don't want to be remembered
as merely a writer with a bumpin' domicile. I need my gold
records casually propped up in the background as I absentmindedly
open the door to my Sub-Zero, revealing a rack of Cristal
chilling.
This can only happen if the file-sharing banditos of the Internet
are brought to heel by the power of right and litigated right
back to the Rock & Pop section of their local Virgin Megastore.
Thank you and God bless the RIAA.
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Photo:
Illegal music downloader discovered in closet by RIAA officer
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