Thursday, December 25, 2008

Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros

We here at Robot Loves Zombie have, over the course of the last year, not only become acquainted, but absolutely smitten with The Flight of the Conchords (I was going to put a slick link in the name but they have a million sites, none of which get updated regularly. I'm not bitter, though...). So I wrote them a letter today in the hopes that they can fix a problem they created through their endeavors. I got excited and sent off the first email too soon and had to create a second one. I also had to join fucking MySpace again just so I could send them a goddamn message. Enjoy.

Dear Flight of the Conchords (Bret and Jemaine),

I recently purchased your CD, Flight of the Conchords. I was enjoying the CD quite a bit when Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros [feat. Rhymenocerous and the Hiphopopotamus] came on. While the song is catchy and starts off well, one part in particular was a bit off-putting. Jemaine, a.k.a. Hiphopopotamus, clearly states that his lyrics are bottomless. Upon hearing this line I was more excited than ever by the song because I was looking forward to a lyrical buffet, as it were. So you can imagine my chagrin when I found out that, in fact, this so-called "rapper"'s lyrics were not only bottomful, but that they had indeed already run out.

As a consumer and aspiring rap artist you must understand how deeply this affected me. As of the time of this email, I am currently unable to listen to rap songs of any kind for fear that what the rappers say may not be true. What would the world be like if, for instance, Jay-Z only had 63 problems? Or take it a step further: What if one of his 63 problems was a bitch after all? Suppose for a moment that when Dr. Dre is on the mic, nobody crumbles like a cookie? Are we, the rapping community, really able to handle having so many sucka' ninjas standing resolutely against our rhymes? I submit that we are not.

To right this wrong, I strongly suggest you do the following things:

1. Record an alternate version of the song in which you fill the deafening silence created by your dirty, dirty lies.

2. Write or record a formal apology to your fans and the rap community at large. It would be nice if you mentioned me: It will help my activist agenda of making sure that everybody believes everything they hear in the media. I would happily post your apology on my blog and YouTube channel to increase your already considerable exposure.

3. Send me an autographed, FotC-branded item of your choosing. You can even have Brian/Murray/Rhys sign it for the sake of being thorough. This will show your commitment to making things right, standing strong in the face of adversity.

Do these things and you will be able to restore the world's faith in the rap game. I dream that one day my son will grow up knowing, not believing, but knowing that Vanilla Ice will cook MCs like a pound of bacon, that 911 is a joke in his town, and that, while a woman is welcome to do side-bends or sit-ups, she need never lose that butt.
That's a world you should want to raise your kids in as well.

Josh Scotto, a.k.a. Dekx
Co-Blogger at

P.S. I wrote this note hoping that it would be easy to contact you two fine gentlemen. But to my surprise I had to create a MySpace profile since no other option appears to be available to me. As you must know by now, MySpace is pretty much the worst website of all time and space. It's like the Mos Isley of the internets only you don't get the satisfaction of slicing off a fool's arm when he acts like a fool-ass fool.

Please install a red "Conchords Phone" in your music/crime fighting lair at your earliest convenience. I shall do the same, ensuring that any time RLZ needs to contact FotC, we will be able to do so ASAP. Trust me, Jemaine and Bret, it's for your own good.

(Second email)

I forgot to leave you a more amenable means of contacting us at RLZ while we all work on the Conchords Phone implementation.

Though you can find it by navigating to our blog, our email address is


Also, meant to put my rapping name in my signature, and so shall do it now.

Thanks for your time,

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Get Fuuucked, MySpace

I dunno why I joined MySpace, exactly. I think it had to do with the hot rollerderby girls here in Reno. But I fucking hated it there. While going through the 17 screens required to destroy my MySpace account, I found a box with seemingly unlimited characters asking my why I was leaving that cyber shit hole. Following is what I wrote and submitted.

Well, where to begin? For starters, it's slow. This may have something to do with all the people coming here, but more likely to do with the fact that it seems the whole thing was coded almost at random. Perhaps you you guys hired some of those Shakespeare-writing monkies? Or perhaps your servers were shot in the face with an HTML cannon? I dunno, but I get a headache just looking at this place, never mind trying to navigate it.

But more importantly, I hate it here. It's full of amateur pornographers that want me to watch them diddle themselves on webcams and then send them what little money I don't spend on professional pornographers diddling themselves on webcams. I also seem to have contracted what is either Herpes Symplex B or a case of The Babies. In any event I'm swollen, red, and full of penicillin.

In closing, I'd just like to say that I'm never coming back and felt you should hear it from me so you're not surprised when you come by to read my latest blog entry. But do not despair! We will always have those unbareably long waits when trying to move from one page to the next. That's how I will forever remember you.

Love Always,

And now here's a song by one of Robot Loves Zombie's Ukelele Girlfriends singing about MySpace. I wish all of our posts could have such relevant outros.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

"Eat Dat Cat Poo!!"

Due to the holidays and some recent retirements, there are a lot of potlucks going on today. Normally I don't mind potlucks because I think I eat what average people eat so I don't mind smelling what they cooked.

But today...

Today I smelled what I can only describe as cooking cat shit. There was nothing else I could associate the smell with that would explain the horriblenessitudinosity of it. For reals. Obviously I was concerned. Who would cook cat shit? More importantly, who would eat cat shit?! Even MORE importantly, who would cook cat shit then bring it to work hoping somebody would eat it?!?!?

I'm at odds with myself: On the one hand, the inexplicable smell of cooked cat shit. On the other hand, it seems nearly impossible that somebody would cook cat shit. If I'm wrong, then obviously I'm out of balance. I'm bonkers, nuts, apeshit insane. But if I'm right...GORT help us all...

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Note To Self

Do NOT fart in your cube while you're wearing headphones. You'll have no idea how loud it was and that's wicked dangerous.