By Artur Front
Few people disgust me more than Shency Basherdall, the man who so callously ruined the grunge scene forever so that children these days have no idea what Eddie Vedder looks like. Perhaps what is most disturbing, and has led to many jarring, dreary hours in the death grip of a sweaty nightmare, with Basherdall's face dangling above my bed Wizard of Oz style, gaping, teeth bent, is that Basherdall acts like he is not a bad omen for all of mankind and not even a monstrosity from space when it is so obviously clear that he is just exactly that. Hanging over my bed, transparent and huge Basherdall's face has an all-knowing stare that shows, on the vanilla wafers that represent his actual brain cells, a stupidity that rivals the former producer of the Bill Hillenberystamp radio program. This is nonsense compounded to the eighth tetration!
I was able to fool Basherdall, that vile degenerate, into allowing me to interview him at my big studio on the outskirts of Cleveland. He was unaware that I was about to expose his lies to all the world. I told him that I wished to honor his genius and ask him a few questions about raising houseplants. I had read in a magazine at an optometrist office, where I once hid out for a few weeks, that he grows plants in his house. Not for me to judge, but the guy is just a weirdo.
It was this master stroke of social engineering that allowed me, Artur Front, to finally cast light upon the faker who brought down the Seattle scene while short-attention span white America was worried about Y2k. No one knows how Basherdall did it, and no one can prove he did it, still it remains a fact that he cannot explain his whereabouts on the night of September 22, 1999, the last day that grunge rock was seen alive.
This is the vermin that exploited society and took down Indy Records, the most famous of all the record companies (so mainstream that The Society of Vicious Nuns condemned it off-handedly at a sing-along) is a travesty and an atrocity that cannot and never should happen again and we should all work hard to prevent from happening. The best way to do that is to never forget how it all went down that treacherous September.
Basherdall had his hands knee deep in the afterbirth when it all died, when the music died, when America died, when all hope from the beginning of time turned up missing and no one, not even Noman Hedgefont, could do anything about it. I was there when they shot Bill Hillenberystamp. I was knocking on his door. I watched as they nuked Kranakarnal. I was picking up my dry cleaning. Needless to say, my parka was ruined. I think I am entitled to some answers here, I paid my dues. I did my time, I made the effort. It is fairness, is it too much to ask? Man, forget about it, I'm too disillusioned to even continue. Read the interview. Try not to cry on your mobile device or make a run on the Beige House anytime soon.
Just then the vile serpent gathered his plant and hopped in his gas-guzzling van. Heading, hopefully, straight for Kranakarnal, Belgium. A rhododendron stuck inside a house to get sunlight through a window pane and a pollution machine pouring toxic fumes upon unborn children fits in perfectly with the life of a man who does not possess a capacity to love society and only looks to it for exploitation which is a motive that requires him to take down anything pure without a second thought.
Grunge got in his way, and Basherdall had it destroyed. It is not a new story, and perhaps it is not for the evening news, but, motherfuckers, it deserves to be heard regardless of what the corporations have to say about it. I do not care that I may be persecuted for speaking out, as I have been arrested so many times that I know all the jail guards very well and often see them socially. Sometimes, late at night, on the boulevard, the guards and I, in an uproarious hullabaloo, we do not follow the law. When I return to jail, I use that information to my advantage, so that, generally, I get let out of jail as often as I am thrown into it.
My loathing of this man Shency Basherdall continues unabated. I will not be silent. I will document his crimes so that, later, when all indecent people have succumbed to natural consumption, and there is a congress of progress built on the ruins of the vampire senate, and instead of these monsters that we encounter in our own time there is a body of human beings to answer to that can be reasoned with, and that can understand what is right and what is wrong, to take down evil and burn the proud forever in a fiery lake of eternal torment, once and for all, in god we trust, et cetera, they will know. They will know.
I passed out at the typewriter and this is what was on the page when I woke up. Also, on my writing desk, there, right in front of me, was a crumpled styrofoam cup. However, after I looked it over, it was clear that it was not the same cup from earlier. It was a different cup, and there was a third cup laying on the floor, near the file cabinet. It was also not the cup from earlier. Now, I looked, and there it was, on my forehead. The cup from the story. That proves it is not a dream, The End.
Few people disgust me more than Shency Basherdall, the man who so callously ruined the grunge scene forever so that children these days have no idea what Eddie Vedder looks like. Perhaps what is most disturbing, and has led to many jarring, dreary hours in the death grip of a sweaty nightmare, with Basherdall's face dangling above my bed Wizard of Oz style, gaping, teeth bent, is that Basherdall acts like he is not a bad omen for all of mankind and not even a monstrosity from space when it is so obviously clear that he is just exactly that. Hanging over my bed, transparent and huge Basherdall's face has an all-knowing stare that shows, on the vanilla wafers that represent his actual brain cells, a stupidity that rivals the former producer of the Bill Hillenberystamp radio program. This is nonsense compounded to the eighth tetration!
 |
| Eddie Vedder, god of rock |
I was able to fool Basherdall, that vile degenerate, into allowing me to interview him at my big studio on the outskirts of Cleveland. He was unaware that I was about to expose his lies to all the world. I told him that I wished to honor his genius and ask him a few questions about raising houseplants. I had read in a magazine at an optometrist office, where I once hid out for a few weeks, that he grows plants in his house. Not for me to judge, but the guy is just a weirdo.
It was this master stroke of social engineering that allowed me, Artur Front, to finally cast light upon the faker who brought down the Seattle scene while short-attention span white America was worried about Y2k. No one knows how Basherdall did it, and no one can prove he did it, still it remains a fact that he cannot explain his whereabouts on the night of September 22, 1999, the last day that grunge rock was seen alive.
This is the vermin that exploited society and took down Indy Records, the most famous of all the record companies (so mainstream that The Society of Vicious Nuns condemned it off-handedly at a sing-along) is a travesty and an atrocity that cannot and never should happen again and we should all work hard to prevent from happening. The best way to do that is to never forget how it all went down that treacherous September.
Basherdall had his hands knee deep in the afterbirth when it all died, when the music died, when America died, when all hope from the beginning of time turned up missing and no one, not even Noman Hedgefont, could do anything about it. I was there when they shot Bill Hillenberystamp. I was knocking on his door. I watched as they nuked Kranakarnal. I was picking up my dry cleaning. Needless to say, my parka was ruined. I think I am entitled to some answers here, I paid my dues. I did my time, I made the effort. It is fairness, is it too much to ask? Man, forget about it, I'm too disillusioned to even continue. Read the interview. Try not to cry on your mobile device or make a run on the Beige House anytime soon.
Basherdall: This is an interesting closet, sort of a walk-in but not quite. Should we start now?
Me: Why did grunge die, Mr. "Balderdash"?
Basherdall: Odd for a beginning, I'll say. You've said my name wrong. But okay. Hmmm. Why did it die? I mean, I guess its the same as anything else. It ran its course.
Me: Come on, I don't buy that. Do you?
Basherdall: What is there to buy? Perhaps more pressing a matter, what is that on your ear? [the idiot Basherdall pointed to his own ear. That isn't my ear. This is my ear [I point to my own ear]]
Me: I'll ask the questions. I'm not sold. The top echelon of the Meat Puppets Appreciation Society are not sold. Are you?
Basherdall: I don't know what to say to that.
Me: Tell the truth. I think there are people who need to know.
Basherdall: No there aren't.
Me: Are you sure about that?
Basherdall: Yes. I'm certain. I have evidence... Footage, news clippings, et cetera, all in my van.
Me: It sounds like you've gone to a lot of trouble to cover your tracks, taking files in your van everywhere. Who are you trying to fool?
Basherdall: No one.
Me: And by no one do you actually mean everyone?
Basherdall: No. I still mean no one. I have no reason to lie.
Me: Neither did Hitler. Are you sure? About everything? What about it?
Basherdall: Well I cannot agree that the National Socialist party did not have a need to deceive the people of Germany. I will never concede that. Otherwise, of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have said it if I were not.
Me: Well you do seem to know an awful lot about Nazi Germany, sir. A little too much, perhaps [I winked at Mr. Basherdall].
Basherdall: I'm not sure what this is now. We're sitting in a small space and you are winking at me. Go like this [Basherdall moved his hand to his ear, I had no idea what he was indicating unless it was a fascist handsign].
Me: Being compared so closely to Hitler seems to agitate you. You're reaching for strings. Is it because you are hiding the truth?
Basherdall: You are making this more difficult than it needs to be brother, really.
Me: I'm not your brother, pal. We're not bros. This isn't the wheel of fortune and you're not center square, dude. You can't buy a vowel. The password is coverup. Alright? Who are you whitewashing for? Who are you throwing under the bus?
Basherdall: I was told you were going to ask me a few questions for a blog. I was told it was to have nothing to do with music or my career. I brought a rhododendron from my collection.
Me: Goddamn your rhododendron, you Santa Claus killer! I have no respect for your rhododendron or any other plant that you may have growing inside your house, where they don't belong. Vegetation belongs in the ground, not in your potted prison.
Basherdall: Sit, don't take it out on the rhododendron, please sir. You seem to have a knack for missing the point. I'm somewhat amused.
Me: The death of grunge is an amusing affair, to your warped mind, is that it?
Basherdall: Yes I am amused. You have no idea what this is, do you?
Me: Its nothing more, nothing less than, a hard-hitting interview. I'm asking the tough questions and you are doing everything you can to hide from the truth. Grunge is dead, who killed it?
Basherdall: It did all it could, and it died a natural death.
Me: Bullshit! How dare you try to pass that off again. What's the real reason?
Basherdall: No one came to the show. Were you at the last Soundgarden concert? Three people there, including the band. Security was on strike, they hired nannies to take their place, Ticket Monopoly sued Indy Records. The songs... Fans heard it all before, no one was saying anything new for a very long time. They cut their hair. It bottomed out.
Me: Lies! Do you ever get a good night's sleep with this revisionist, negationist, and denialist narrative bouncing around in your vanilla wafers? Does it ever come and slap you in the face, and just say, you're a sell-out and a phony - A Seattle poser.
Basherdall: No. I sleep well in a large house.
Me: So you're saying it was all worth it?
Basherdall: Yes I am.
Me: Are you from outer space?
Basherdall: Absolutely not.
Me: If you were from outer space, would you admit it?
Basherdall: yes.
Me: You are not a good liar, Mr. Basherdall. I can see that you are in fact an alien just by your response and your micro expressions. Your behavior is, to me, not unlike a gray colonizer. The similarities are uncanny. The listeners at home cannot see this, but you just gave yourself away. And I hope that everyone will note that we now have definitive proof that Shency Basherdall is an alien from outer space.
Basherdall: First of all, there are not many listeners. You have one follower. Okay. I'm guessing it is you.
Me: Well! There you have it. I've never had a worse interview.
Basherdall: Me either.
Me: Goodbye state apologist.
Basherdall: You have something stuck to your ear, idiot. It looks like a styrofoam cup.
Me: Oh! I was sleeping near some rubbish. I forget where I woke up, but there was some debris nearby. There is a sticky substance as well. It looks like the cup, though crumpled, is still half full of hot coffee. Shency "Balderdash" probably thinks it is half empty. I'll take your ad hominems and bullying as proof that I've won the argument. Good day sir! This interview is over!
Just then the vile serpent gathered his plant and hopped in his gas-guzzling van. Heading, hopefully, straight for Kranakarnal, Belgium. A rhododendron stuck inside a house to get sunlight through a window pane and a pollution machine pouring toxic fumes upon unborn children fits in perfectly with the life of a man who does not possess a capacity to love society and only looks to it for exploitation which is a motive that requires him to take down anything pure without a second thought.
Grunge got in his way, and Basherdall had it destroyed. It is not a new story, and perhaps it is not for the evening news, but, motherfuckers, it deserves to be heard regardless of what the corporations have to say about it. I do not care that I may be persecuted for speaking out, as I have been arrested so many times that I know all the jail guards very well and often see them socially. Sometimes, late at night, on the boulevard, the guards and I, in an uproarious hullabaloo, we do not follow the law. When I return to jail, I use that information to my advantage, so that, generally, I get let out of jail as often as I am thrown into it.
My loathing of this man Shency Basherdall continues unabated. I will not be silent. I will document his crimes so that, later, when all indecent people have succumbed to natural consumption, and there is a congress of progress built on the ruins of the vampire senate, and instead of these monsters that we encounter in our own time there is a body of human beings to answer to that can be reasoned with, and that can understand what is right and what is wrong, to take down evil and burn the proud forever in a fiery lake of eternal torment, once and for all, in god we trust, et cetera, they will know. They will know.
I passed out at the typewriter and this is what was on the page when I woke up. Also, on my writing desk, there, right in front of me, was a crumpled styrofoam cup. However, after I looked it over, it was clear that it was not the same cup from earlier. It was a different cup, and there was a third cup laying on the floor, near the file cabinet. It was also not the cup from earlier. Now, I looked, and there it was, on my forehead. The cup from the story. That proves it is not a dream, The End.
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