Buster Poindexter must die.

I have been avoiding posting about this because, shit man, I need some fucking dignity.

You must push play to read the rest of this post. Otherwise you will not share with me, the sheer hell that is my life.

Once you hear it, this song refuses to leave your brain. It simply deposits itself, like a certain human auto imune disease, right in your gut-where it waits to strike at you when you are at your weakest.

But as my brother likes to say "at some point you begin to ask yourself, not 'if' but... how many flies in your eye are ok?"

The Shame and Yeast of it all.

"I did not sign up for this."

It was the only thought that ran through my head, following the explanation by my department manager for our new procedures for selling French Bread.

Well, there was also this: "I'd rather eat raw the unwashed placenta from Suri Cruise than do this."

"Some of the stores are even forming conga lines."

We must place a small cd player on the top of a hot rack full of bread, playfully decorated with a Carmen Miranda fruit hat, and blast Poindexter's "hit" while attempting to hock bread to our typically unresponsive customers.

Buster Poindexter should die a painful death. A hot... hot ...hot... death if you will.

I wonder though, maybe Buster doesn't realize his masterpiece of kitsch has been appropriated by corporate miscreants. Maybe I should get somebody from the recording industry to find out if we are paying royalties.

Perhaps, Buster is much of a victim here as I am. Perhaps. But just in case, Buster, I want you to know, if you gave them your permission, I will hunt you down... you dress wearing clown of a fag.