Brian Parmesan

What in the sam hell? I go about minding my own business, pumping iron, pumping chicks, and googling for myself to see what my many female conquests have been saying about me, and then I stumble on an old thread that died a whole year ago, but now is all dredged up again with people talking shit about Brian Parmesan! Why, when folk complain so much about haters round these parts, do they drag up some old news and raise it up for new discussion? Why can’t a man go about his own business without getting newly frowned-upon by newly het-up chicks? Do you read old newspapers like from the 1930s and get all outraged at the shit that happens? What the hell’s wrong with you? Well, I hope you’re all well, ‘cause I sure as shit ain’t been. Remember my tale from a year ago? Well, that Coldplay-listening fag who expelled his air onto me from his behind put me in a worse state than I ever could’ve imagined. That hospital situation that I described to you back then was only the beginning. He farted me into unconsciousness that day, but the particular and immediate effects subsided pretty soon. After a week, I rode on home, and I was fine and dandy for a little while. But then I noticed symptoms. Long-drawn-out symptoms. And it was the beginning of a slow decline for me. My condition worsened until finally, I was dragged back to the hospital by my mother, Irene, and she complained loud and hollerin’ to all the doctors that I had the same ill effects as before. Now, Dr. Barney Cumpston is a good man. He’s been our family physician for generations. He examined my buttocks that day, and my wrists, and my thighs. Every part of me. He lifted my testes up and felt around good in that li’l sweaty bridge area behind, that spot where the ladies have their thing. Nothin’ doin’ there. They did me a goddamn cat-scan for my head and then some gay-ass therapist from Europe or some place asked me about my childhood. Nothing doin’ in any of those places and I could’ve told ‘em that already. Finally, the good doctor examined my teeth. He looked in long and hard and then he pulled out some tiny object with a pair of silver tweezers. He examined it closely and then, with a big breath, he said I got the big C. Damn. Cancer, I thought and I whispered it all fearful like, but “no, sir, you don’t have that particular illness”, the doctor said in his rich and comforting baritone. Well, I scratched my head and looked all befuddled while the doctor took his seat, looking all kindly and wise and quietly pleased with himself for knowing the answer. But Irene, my ma, jumped in then all alarmed and quizzical and interrupted him, asking ‘well, what is it, doc’, and he replied then that I had a bad case of the Coldplayitis. Well, it seems that Coldplay-lovin’ fag who bent down and blew that lyrical air at me must’ve sprayed some solid inadvertently, because stuck between my teeth was a little, brown nugget that I’d been licking and mixing with my food for about three goddamn months! Well, the doctor rolled out that nugget, smudging it along his finger, then he examined it under a microscope. He read aloud what he could see. “Confidence in you, Is confidence in me, Is confidence I high speed Can anybody stop this thing? Before my head explodes, Before my head starts to ring?” Goddamn, I was fuming to hear that! Those were the very same words that felled me that day. That’s okay in short doses, but no reasonable man can take such guff for a prolonged period. Consider my symptoms here, dudettes. My brain was all fried and my general health had taken a severe and long-term knock; my stomach had turned all yellow, I was bald on my head, flaccid in my underwear and I had wild and stupid delusions of godhood, like I was some crazy seer or something. For six weeks, I wore a robe around the house like a strung-out homeless guy, uttering profound but meaningless sentences like I knew some shit that others didn’t. And then to top it all off, three musically competent but unimaginitive non-entities kept coming to my house with their instruments and tried to play their music around my words. They said we’d be famous, like that band, Coldplay. But then, my brother Harvey came back from I-raq and kicked them all out hard onto the street. Harvey fixed me up good. He slapped me round the head every hour, gave me beer to drink, fags to wail on and strapped some headphones on me with a constant diet of Kid Rock and Bon Jovi. And finally, he got Shirelle and Bambi from the strip joint on Main to visit us and I got lap-danced in regular rotation until I was up and fighting and showing those ladies a real good time. And that’s what happened. Now, Viva Child, I sense some hostility from you, though perhaps I’m misreading your post. But damn, girl, are you even a compatriot of mine? I see the flag on your profile there, but do you really live in the good ol’ US of A or what? And if so, why are you salivating over a bunch of skinny-ass limeys when we’re practically on a goddamn war footing? I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but ‘Great’ Britain, under the guise of ‘British Petroleum’, is busy pumping their commie, possibly homosexual, oil onto our great coastline, hurting our birds and depriving us of fine gasoline that we could use for our automobiles. Let’s hope our blue-ass democrat of a president can finally prove he’s a true American and has the balls to start shooting up some o’ the limeys’ assets, starting with freakin’ Coldplay. Besides, girl, you ain’t immune to the Brian Parmesan Effect. I say to look me up. You come runnin’, all searchin’ and googlin’ and getting all excited at the goddamn alpha-male runnin’ around in your midst. But I understand this phenomenon all too well. You probably know some guys in your hood and they’re all limp and faggy and shit and they listen to Coldplay and you must be a touch bitter about your situation. Now, there’re too many chicks with that kinda problem and I aim to correct this world as much as possible, but don’t go getting your hopes up. You couldn’t handle Brian Parmesan. But note here, speculators, that I never cared for no goddamn Coldplay. Nor do I care for the other tools who may be pollutin’ your boards. Fans or haters, they’re all ripe for wailing on, all fine targets for the fists of Brian Parmesan. And I’m a guy with brains, see, but I ain’t got time to be reading no fool Plato. A punch from Brian Parmesan is worth the weight of a thousand philosophy books. I’ll re-draw the soul of the world in my own sweet way. (And Thalia babe I’m here with a rose ‘tween my teeth for you, hon, been scrawling my poetry to you all over the mounds of bodies of Coldplay-lovin’ fags that have met their end through contact with me, with Brian Parmesan). No, my friends, I came here only because Coldplay offends me. I had to tell my story. Now, let me go about my business.

Thanks for the kind words, y'all. At some point, I hope to follow it up with chapters to chronicle the following demises, in this order: Guy Berryman, Jonny Buckland, Christopher Martin. Brian Parmesan

Here's a li'l fanfic I cooked up in a play-format for y'all, entitled 'The Sorry Death of Will Champion'. Enjoy. Brian Parmesan

Aw, shucks, baby! There's enough Brian Parmesan to go around.

Yeah, baby, I'll take care of that shit. Way I see it, a turd of a song is a turd of a song, it don't matter who wrote it. You don't need a courtroom to decide that. They should all be hiding their heads in embarrassment. Hear this. My fists are clenchin' and indiscriminate. I'll ram that guitar so far up his ass, he'll be playing a 12-hour solo in his lower intestine. It's all game. Wimp-ass limeys or bald, fretwanking douchebags. All the same to Brian Parmesan.

Damn. You sure know how to hurt a guy. First, I get praise for my penmanship and some sympathy for my hospital situation. I appreciate that. Then suddenly I'm all retardness and I can't be taken seriously. What am I, a joke around here? Man, people say that I don't treat chicks with the respect they deserve, but damn if they can't be consistent for just two seconds. So listen up, y'all, and you'll hear some truth that don't come out too much. Chicks want to be with me. That's a fact. When I walk down the street to buy a cola with my shirt off, or I'm cruising down Main with the hood down and my buds in the back, the ladies see and they can't help but stare. Their heads swivel around to my direction, their eyes fix on my sweet, hard bod and their hips begin to gyrate without their knowledge. I call that the Brian Parmesan Effect. That shit is real and it earns me my rep. Every chick wants to be with me. It's practically a law in this town. But don't take that for all that I am. I know the truth. When I'm laying with a chick, I know she don't want me for who I am. She don't wanna know me as a person, or talk about my interests or what I feel inside. She'll never see the times when I cry or when I'm punching the walls to get my anger out. She just gets to be the town princess for a night, getting the glory at school the next day and being the envy of her cheerleader friends. But she don't know the real me. She don't even wanna know. It's just the prestige, as they call it. This shit is real, homez. It's lonely being Brian Parmesan. I'm gonna go wail on some fags now.

Oh, man, Transformers 2 was the shit! Probably the most explosions I've seen in any one film. Michael Bay has to be the greatest director. Those robots moved so fast, man, I couldn't even see what was going on! Now check this picture: Pretty sweet, huh? Now, when you see this picture, what do you think? Tell me. What do you naturally deduce from this shot? That's right. A chick like that does NOT listen to frickin' Coldplay. Understand. If she was looking for a guy, she would not want some Coldplay-listening fag in her life. She'd be riding on back of my bike, blasting out some Kid Rock n' shit. Now, I don't mean to be harsh, but my dislike of Coldplay fans goes way back. I used to wail on Coldplay fans all the time. My brothers, Chase and Harvey, they were in on it too. One time, when Harvey had gone in the army to fight the terrorists, me and Chase hunted down some Coldplay-loving fags. We chased them all round town. They were nearly cryin', whimpering out for Chris Martin to come and save 'em. Well, we caught up with them pretty sweet. My fists were clenchin', my adrenaline pumping and I yelled out sweet, mocking obscenities, so they would know what fate had in store. Chase went and caught one on his own, and while he wailed on him, I went in pursuit of the other. I chased him past the cinema and down the back of the K-mart where the bins are all laid out. I nearly had the sucker, when what happened? He quit running. He didn't turn to face me like a man, but simply bent down, showing me his ass. He waited. He farted. "Confidence in you, Is confidence in me, Is confidence in high speed Can anybody stop this thing? Before my head explodes, Before my head starts to ring" Man, the air was so rotton and pungent, it knocked me straight out. I was in the goddamn hospital for six days. Six frickin' days! My family were distraught. They wept at my bedside. Soon, my mother, Irene, in desperation she called up my brother. Harvey was just returning from his tour of I-raq and was still in the mood for bustin' heads. Well, Harvey found the fag that did it, busted him all the hell up, then set about busting the head of every Coldplay fan in the vicinity. It was like Grand Theft Auto: Fag City. He broke teeth, he broke noses, and when he was done, he ripped the shoulder-button things off of their military jackets and kept them as souvenirs. Them Coldplay-loving fags ain't got no military training like my brother Harvey. Well, word got around town - Nobody fucks with Harvey Parmesan. That's my brother. Now, life is sweet. I get laid every night with a different chick. They find out I'm Harvey's brother and the panties just drop. Second call-out to the Coldplay-loving ladies here. Drop all this shit. I'll show you how to live. Look me up. I'm Brian Parmesan.

Oh, man, Coldplay? That's some seriously faggy shit right there. Now listen up. Girls don't dig guys who dig whiney, faggy music. That's a fact. Check me. I can benchpress 375 pounds. I look sweet n' raw in my vest with my arms all showing. You and me? Who do you think's gonna get the ladies? I tell the Coldplay fans at my school about this shit. Less Coldplay = more ass. I try to help 'em. Do they listen? Hell, no. It's like they're scared to get laid or something. Dude, I agree with your sentiments, but I still think you guys are pretty faggy. You work in a college, right? Well, you remind me of the chumps that my buds and I used to gather up in the men's room and flush their heads down one by one. Ha, ha. Good times. You see, up there in your ivory towers, you don't know how things play out in the real world. Down in my neck of the woods, you wouldn't last five seconds. My buds would introduce you to some judo holds like you've never felt and my black friend, Stewart, he'd totally put a cap in yo' ass. But then I guess you guys are in Europe n' all, that's all faggy commie bullshit, where they want everyone to be commie like them and let the terrorists win. You need to bolster up, give them beats, same with these Coldplay fans cos' they don't listen neither. They ain't never gonna get laid, so what the hell, more ass for me. My buds and me, we'll be out looking for some Coldplay-listening fags to wail on after Transformers 2 tonight. You all better stay in your bedrooms. Any of the lady Coldplay fans, this don't apply. I can teach you better than this. I'll show you a good time you won't get from crying in your bedrooms listening to this shit. Look me up. I'm Brian Parmesan.