wackass raven mack's hate o' tha day: PAUL SIMON

Mike says I hate everything, but he only knows me through the robotertrons, which filters all my neurological impulses into negative charges, so that's not really fair. But I ain't writing shit else for the stupid internetronics lately, and probably won't, so I'll share my Hate O' Tha Days with you stupid fuckers, and Mike. What else are you gonna do clicking on this shit? You think the mixtape challenge is gonna wrap up? Another EWA? The top 20 stupid jamz ever? Jokes on you jack.

Today, I hate Paul Simon. Not for any of his music, though that Graceland album is like 17 thousand variations of annoying. But he had that "Slip Slidin' Away" song and I had young parents and my mom had an older half-brother who was a biker who had various addictions over the years and could punch through cinderblocks as a bar trick. One time he was visiting and there was an ice storm and I was playing in the snow and he was all drunk and sliding out to his car to drive home (this was the '70s, so people weren't pussies about driving under influences yet), and he almost busted his big biker swastika tattoo forearm ass a couple of times, and as he drove off, he had the windows down since the defrost didn't work probably, and was singing "Slip Slidin' Away" really loud, smiling at me, wearing sunglasses in an ice storm, leaving a young stupid Raven with quite the mentally etched visual while building my snow fort to fight Germans or Iranians or Dr. Hook or whatever stupid shit I fought back then in fake fights in my imagination. So because of that moment and my crazy uncle Ray, I give Paul Simon's music a pass.
But I hate Paul Simon for marrying Edie Brickell and keeping that bitch locked up ever since. When I was 15, I smoked tons of weed, and was into homely looking cute chicks who could sing. One night, this chick Renee gave me a ride home, and she was my boy's girlfriend, but I was way fucked up (weed plus vodka plus pill equals oh shit how did I get here?), so she gave me a ride home, and she sang on the way while I wavered between passed out and almost dead in the passenger seat. Her soft lullaby voice made me really want to rape her when we got to my house, but I was too drunk to pull it off, and nothing sucks more than getting your ass kicked by a chick you're trying to force sex on. Well, Edie Brickell, when she busted out with her New Bohemian buddies, was a similar type of chick. Very hot in the English major future English teacher "let's drink a nice bottle of wine and then you can fuck me in the ass while I growl" type ladies, looking like Simone from Head of the Class, but secretly like any of the 39 porn stars named Simone.
So my destiny at this point was to wander off to college, probably in West Virginia because it's wild and wonderful like me, and Edie Brickell and her New Bohemians would play a show there, and we'd end up meeting and shit and she'd love me because, you know, I'm the shit, and I'd love her, so then I wouldn't have to go to college because I just live off her record sales money and have sex with her and just chill. It was gonna be real chill, and quite the destiny. They didn't have crazy video game consoles where you have to push 19 buttons at once and you can import holographs of yourself into the game at that point, but I'm sure I was counting on playing a lot of Bases Loaded, always beaming that Okonkwo fucker so he'd charge the mound and get ejected.
Then along comes Paul Simon with his 1967 in Central Park strumming guitar ass. And I guess creepy old acoustic guitar professor types are as attractive to future english teacher types as future english teacher types are to young drug and alcohol fueled raven macks, because Edie Brickell married that fucker and is never to be heard from again. I often imagine he and Woody Allen get together to play pinochle, and Edie Brickell and the little chink girl hang out in the kitchen drinking wine together and mixing up an awesome organic greens salad with grilled wild salmon, talking about paint colors for their guest rooms and what type of faux finish they'd like to get. Poor bitches.
So Paul Simon, I hope you get this emailed to you as a link so you can see how you ruined my life. I could've been rich and lazy by now, and probably would be cheating on Edie Brickell with Lucinda Williams who wouldn't mind my heavy drinking as much as well, but you fucked it all up, little man.
(Also, I googled image searched Edie up, and she's homelier than ever, but I imagine living with a worldly musical little NYC troll will cause that in a woman.)