Sprinkled throughout this site are references to Ian, but as even his most ardent supporters have noticed as of late, something is.... afoot, and it is no longer enough to simply state, "He's better than Noory any night." (Who isn't?)
~~~~~~~
There was a great greenish ocean.
And it sucked fiercely, riding that heifer.
Tossed like flotsam and jetsam were those souls - all in perpetual fear of becoming a strange effluvium - a film of protozoan spunk splatter, a consequence from the Harsh onslaught of that Bitch Mistress, the Noorygian Sea.
Then....
A raft.
And we did cling to this raft called IAN PUNNETT. The raft was obviously from the supply closet of a seminary school, but we didn't complain.
We were drowning, God Damn it!
But something is wrong. Is it waterlogged? Is it becoming portly in its self im
portance?
Ian, my friend - We hardly knew ya! Now it seems you have the corner on religious interpretation and your tasty Canadians no longer simmer in a show of camaraderie. You are on the cusp of alienating your fans/supporters and your Hebrew puns fail to rescue you from our Essenic judgment.
Yet, you seem unaware, fancying yourself as some ersatz Melchizedek while the Tree of Life withers.
Some of us (well, perhaps just myself) fantasize about
Bishop James Pike rising from the dead and replacing you.
I wrote you a funny letter and you ignored it, you callous pretender. How could you do this to a faithful member of your army? Yes...
Ian's Army. Ironically, I now feel less loved than when I joined the
KISS ARMY back in the day. At least they sent me a keychain.
(I recall in my formative years attending a KISS concert that was being picketed by religious fanatics, actually carrying large wooden crosses. "God loves your soul, KISS loves your
money!" they shouted through bullhorns. My response was "And?")
Ian, are you possessed by George? What's up with your change in attitude? Your defenders are beginning to turn...
like the
infamous screw...
"
Where have all the good times gone?" - (Socrates/Francis Bacon/Van Halen)
And ... please.... I know you are invisible via radio, but put some hours in on the treadmill. I mistook you for a rotund Elton John and embarrassed myself by singing the beginning of
Candle In The Wind in front of my date as we were using my laptop.
"You really like
him?" she asked.
"But he's a kickass host," I replied, trying to recover, before clicking onto Facebook.
I fear
I will not get laid now, because
you let yourself go!
~Exercise to spite the deadly sin of
Gluttony.~ Put that in your seminary pipe and smoke it and let me know how the smoke tickles Yaweh's nostrils.
The rest of us are watching our weight and exercising - and some of the more occult minded busy
exorcising and
banishing - but what of our once steady raft that defied the Georgian Maelstrom? To whom do we turn if Knapp isn't on? What's it all about?
I'm about to excommunicate myself to
Sirius Radio if something doesn't quit sucking soon.
I fear it's all going down the vortex. The Earth is hollow, and it is pulling everything inside.
The Hollow Earth - displaying the George Noory Effect - sucking from down there with all the Nazi flying saucers amid the Smokey God and wee folk and giants and all those coins we accidentally dropped through street grates and the occasional lost straggler from a Carlsbad Caverns tour gone awry.
For God's sake Ian - your God or anyone's - get your groove back.
(spurning glance)
