[It] could be called a "satire" or "dark comedy" or a "story in which lots of terrible things happen to a lot of good people". If you like my writing, you will like this book. It was written with you in mind.
When I'd last paid attention to this band in '94, they were merely a gimmicky pep-punk act. In the intervening 17 years, they'd somehow morphed into something immense and terrible, a mewling behemoth that embodied the worst aspects of pop music: the preposterous pomposity of 90s alt-schlock, the cock rock awfulness of 80s arena rock, the preening jizz sock sincerity of 70s singer-songwriter ballads. Worse, they'd done so with the tenacity of a cockroach, refusing to die, or even peak.
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