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The Lingering Stench of the Black Eyed Peas


So the Super Bowl came and went like a fat, sweaty, overbearing relative – and it left a stench in the bathroom that can only be described as the Black Eyed Peas.

Yes – once again we are suffocated by the American assumption that what is lapped up by teenage girls is also lapped up by everyone else over fourteen.

This scares the Bieber out of me.

Because it’s true. We are what we eat. And last night we ate a pile of crap.

Don’t get me wrong. The Peas aren’t that awful. Beneath the autotune, the plastic surgery, the nursery rhyme lyrics and the costumes designed for incontinent robots, there exists a modicum of talent that seems almost Barbie-esque. Fergie’s voice is captivating, in a “maybe I should hire her for my bachelor party” sort of way.

But here’s my problem: over the last twenty years we’ve mistaken spectacle for entertainment – that by adding more people, lights, sound effects, explosions and fog machines – we think this camouflages banality, when it only accentuates it.

The decline of civilization is only THAT MUCH louder.

Yeah, I know I sound like a stupid old man with an swollen prostate and a tiny lawn.

But believe me, it’s time to pull back, strip it down, and realize we don’t need all this putrid pomp – when in fact just a dude, with a guitar, and some decent songs can do better.

You know who I’m talking about…

[youtube a9TOitV21XE nolink]


Let me in, indeed.

And if you disagree with me, you’re worse than Kenneth Cole.

Killer show tonight:

Isiah Mustapha!

Jim Florentine!

Diane Macedo!

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