The Batlord, Ke$ha, and the Party of Doom
So I'm sure you've all been wondering just how a True Metalhead of the Highest Caliber such as myself could stoop to such shameless Ke$ha worship. Well, it all started on one fateful, Friday night in the summer of something or other...
I was searching for poseurs to pound on, just like any other Friday night, and -- through a strange and awesome series of events concerning a cross country road trip to Vegas, an unsettling encounter with a midget stripper and a bag of what I
thought was coke, all culminating in what may or may not have been a psychedelic shoot out in a cowboy ghost town -- I just so happened to be doing so after waking up in a dirty alley while being urinated on by a hobo in Los Angeles, California. A lesser man would have been too busy panicking over being lost on the other side the country with no money, no phone, and no pants to be thinking about beating up poseurs, but I am no such pussy. (Thank Dio for Rodeo Drive clothing shops with non-shatter proof store windows.)
So, brand new pants on my perfectly-sculpted ass and still smelling strongly of bum piss I climbed the fence to a gated community which looked to be prime poseur hunting grounds. My instincts proved correct, and my fists were soon caked with hipster blood and expensive dental work. It was shaping up to be a pretty good night, but I was starting to feel a serious craving for booze and drugs.
As if by providence I heard the strains of ****ty dubstep as my latest victim collapsed in a heap of flannel and ironic facial hair. Obviously I had no desire to listen to dubstep, but I knew an obnoxious house party when I heard one, and my beer sense was tingling.
With one final steel-toed kick to the mostly alive poseur douchebag's stomach, I set off to get my **** wrecked.
I scored pay dirt, too. I didn't know or care what ******* this house belonged to, but it was ****in' ace: big god damn mansion with a circular driveway (that's how the **** you know you made it), backyard pool full of naked chicks, and more **** to drink, smoke, and snort than even I could possibly handle. I got some funny looks from all the trust fund toolbags for my Morbid Angel shirt, denim jacket, and general state of being covered in blood and urine, but a blender full of margaritas to the face of some hipster put a stop to that ****.
It was all going good and I was getting well and truly ****ed up, thinking about skeezin' on some trashy, hipster skanks, when some blonde chick covered in glitter stomped up to me with a bitchy look.
"Hey, *******! Why are you hitting my guests in the face with blenders?!"
"Cause they're ****ing douchebags. **** your house. Hey, aren't you that Kesha chick?"
"It's Ke$ha, ****wad!"
"Oh... your music sucks."
I would have said some other ****, but I was struck by just how adorable she looked when kicking me in the nuts.
A lesser man would have collapsed in pain after taking a swift kick to the nards, but I'm a True Metalhead of the Highest Caliber, so I just asked if she wanted to give me a blow job.
You'll never know how sexy it is when a hot chick punches you in the throat until a hot chick punches you in the throat. I think I was falling in love.
She was about to call me some awesome name, but then some dude yelled like a pussy...
"It's the cops!"
"God damn it," said Ke$ha, "****ing pigs always trying to shut my parties down."
She stalked through the wussed out crowd of now scared panty-waists and barged out the door.
This shindig was just getting good, so I wasn't about to let some *******s spoil my fun. Beer and blunt in hand I followed her, ready to kick some fuzz ass.
Like, five cop cars were parked out on the street, and Ke$ha went up to the closest one. The officer was just getting out of his car, and was all like...
"Alright, we got fifteen noise complaints from the neighbors, so we're shutting this party down! Everybody go home!"
Ke$ha didn't even say ****. She just judo chopped him in the neck, dropping him like a sack of donuts.
I was definitely in love.
Then all the other pigs got all douchey and pulled out their guns, telling her to get down on the ground.
**** that ****. I chugged my beer, finished the blunt in one metallic toke, and grabbed the unconscious pig's gun (I'd lost my AK-47 in my other pants).
Now the other cops decided to **** with my ****, so I shot one of them in the balls and took cover behind the police cruiser. Ke$ha reached into car and took out a shotgun, firing a warning shot in another pork-meister's face, before ducking down next to me.
Thankfully all the return fire drowned out the dubstep.
"What do we do now, Ke$ha?"
"What do you think, loser? Time to shoot some pigs."
"**** yeah."
And so we rushed from behind the car and unleashed hell.
All the Saints Row I'd been playing had paid off, the cops being no match for my mad skillz, and Ke$ha was the perfect wingchick, taking out mother****ers left as I ****ed **** up right.
The police tried, they really did, but they were no match for a True Metalhead of the Highest Caliber such as myself... and Ke$ha. It wasn't long before reinforcements showed up, along with SWAT *******s armed with automatic weapons.
It was awesome.
Even SWAT couldn't **** with our ****, though, and I was contemplating inventing a new sex act suited to urban combat, but then the helicopter arrived.
Apparently the LAPD considered black people such a nuisance that they armed their helicopters with mini-guns, forcing Ke$ha and I to take cover behind a SWAT van, but even its bullet-proof armor wouldn't last long against that kickass hail of lead.
"********," said Ke$ha, "If I could just get my anti-tank sniper rifle from my bedroom..."
I wanted this bitch to abort my children.
"You know..." I said, "Since we're about to die, I just thought up this new thing we could do."
But before she could almost certainly agree, the night was pierced by the offensively loud roar of a Harley Davidson.
"What the **** is that?!" screamed Ke$ha.
"Dude, I think I know. He always shows up when the **** hits the fan."
"
He who?"
I cracked a ****-eating grin.
"The ****ing
man, dude."
The mini-gun stopped firing for a moment as the pig operating it scanned the street for the new arrival, only to shriek like a bitchass little girl as a rocket-propelled grenade slammed into his face.
With a kickass "BOOM!" the helicopter exploded, raining flaming shrapnel down on the houses of the toolbag neighbors, burning them and their ugly children alive.
Awesome.
The street now silent -- one of the propeller blades had landed on Ke$ha's house, killing all the hipsters and stopping the dubstep -- but for the approaching motorcycle pulling up along side us, Ke$ha and I stood to greet our savior.
Joey DeMaio of Manowar, RPG slung over his shoulder.
"Dude," I said, "One of these days I'm gonna save
your ass."
"Not gonna happen. I win my cop shootouts."
I wasn't about to admit the truth of that statement.
"Hey, aren't you Ke$ha? Your music sucks."
I don't know how you kick someone in the testicles while they're sitting on a motorcycle, but she's just that awesome.
"So, anyway," said Joey, completely unaffected, "I would stay, but it looks like all the booze and drugs got burned up, so I'm gonna go."
"Oh..." I responded, "Just like that?"
"Yup."
"Well... thanks."
"No problem. And Ke$ha, your music sucks, but you're an alright chick."
And with a mighty rev of his bike's engine, Joey DeMaio rode off into the night.
"Well, wasn't that some ****?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'm gonna have to go buy some Manowar albums."
"You'll have to order them off their website. They don't have a distribution deal in America."
"This country's full of ****ing poseurs."
"I know."
We had a long talk after that, but I'm not about to tell you losers about the details of our newfound love, so I'll just say that we banged on some dead cops and managed to find some vodka and heroin in the remains of her mansion.
I woke up some time later in Canada... alone. One day I'll go back and marry that chick, but until then I've got an entire nation of poseurs to wail on.
And I've been bumpin' her music ever since.
The ****ing End