Here's the thing I like about your mom.

She tells the truth. That's rare these days. I don't remember the last time I got not lied to. I just expect it now. Everyone's a four year old that stuck a finger in the birthday cake 20 minutes before your surprise party. You look them straight in the eyes and ask,

"Did you stick your finger in the cake mommy baked for my birthday?"

(eye contact, shake's head)

"Nope Daddy!" Comes the lie.

"Yes you did you simpleton. I can tell that you're stoned. Didn’t you know mommy puts weed in all my cakes? Now you're fucked up and you're about to start bugging out thinking a miniature sheep is inside your head singing Dionne Warwick tunes and that he’ll be there until you die."

They all just stare straight in your eyes and say “Nope Daddy!”

All a bunch of poisoned tongued rodent faced double talky snake oil salesmen. All except your mom. Take this for example. The other day I took a shit at your crib when you were at work. Chill, duder! I always hang out with your moms in the afternoon. She kills it with the chicken fried waffles. Who would have known you can deep fry a waffle in used bacon grease and breadcrumbs and have it come out tasting like a puppy must taste to a cheetah.

Anyway, I blew up your bathroom. And your mom, in her dry and frank manner said, “That shit stinks.”

“But don’t worry, boy, my shit stinks, too.”

Wow, thanks Mrs.(your mother's name).

Not many people can look me in the eye while I’m dropping “SoCo Splashbombz”, shirtless, reading about hockey (don’t even like that shit) and sweating like Patrick Ewing at Guantanamo; this due to the combination of an out-of-work air conditioner and the hedes like temperature of Philadelphia in nearly all seasons. Furthermore, most could never do so while telling me how putrid my insides smell. And lastly, no one could ever do all this and admit a true fault of their own. Most people would rather wait in the living room hoping that I somehow choke to death during a freak toilet paper accident even though they know the odds of this are slim.

Not your mom. She comes correct. That’s why when she told me to cop the new Wale joint I immediately borrowed your track bike, rode into the sunset, and copped doubles.

Fr-Fr-FRASH!$!$!$!$!

A review of The Klaxons(It's not over yet)

Klaxons got ya'll fooled. The "hair" and the "cool"" attitude."

It’s just a ruse to keep you from focusing on the “music”. Because they know that when you start listening to the sound that their voices and “instruments” are making you’ll realize what you’re hearing. They’re a dance version of the late 90’s soft-electro-epics version of late era Hall and Oates.

All you have to do is close your eyes and picture Coldplay singing "It's Not Over Yet" and you'll see what I mean.

Everybody knows, if you like Coldplay you're an old dude. You’re an oldy-old-old. You're older than your dad was when you were 9 and you were like "That man is fucking old. I mean, he's got a fucking greasy beard and warts. My dad is close to death."

If you dig the Klaxons, well, then you're just an old dude who still thinks he's young because he's making sweaty sex-time eyes as he jogs in place like a fitness guru at the club.

Guess what. Those aren't sexy eyes. That's a leer.

Guess what else. Real young people don't dance to music. They fuck on beat standing up.

That "moving your body cuz your high on music "shit is finished. You need to have your dick out as soon as you get past the bouncer. You need to start humping the air and walking towards all females. Because chicks in the club are not looking to "vibe." They're trying to get pregnant. Why are they trying to get pregnant? Because their feminine intuition tells them that 1.) A relationship with you outside the confines of the club would be a dreadful waste of happiness and all positive energy and 2.) The Apocalypse is coming, males will be annihilated, and they need to plant that seed and repopulate the Earth or else mankind will be wiped without a trace from the face of the planet.

See, once again you've failed. You're a horrible boyfriend, a lousy dancer, a failed novelist and a Klaxons fan.

Have fun looking back.