Nothing gives me the blues more than smelling the snatch of a 40-year-old virgin while administering her first twat check-up in 20 years. Instead of elevator music, I pipe in this tribute to blues legend ROBERT JOHNSON as the South Street Seaport aroma settles over my anxiously waiting patients, who will hopefully run out the door thinking that something’s died in the exam room, and I can call it a day and go out drinking with low-class city whores.
With all the on-call pressures and annoyances I have to face from seeing disgusting, unsanitary patients all week (and my hideous gizz-bag of a wife at night), this rendition of 11 Robert J songs strikes a chord. I can almost look past the fact that Clapton’s a White guy trying to sing a Black man’s blues, but by the eleventh track, I just want to stick a Clorox-filled syringe into his scrotum. He’ll wish he was back playing with CREAM, and that he’d left this kind of music alone.
Clapton has as much business singing "Here’s a little queen of spades" as I do using a forklift to extract a kidney (except if it’s that Jared guy from Subway). You want to suffocate him slowly with a pillow, like one of those comatose, chicken-legged wastes of IV fluid.
Not that White guys don’t have stuff to be miserable about. Marry a money-grubbing wench addicted to meth and you’ll know what I mean. And God knows there are times when I want to drop my crying 3-year-old out an 8-story window. But our blues don’t nearly measure up to Johnson’s kind of blues circa 1936, and the Black man’s blues in general. I mean, no one except that psychotic tranny from Detroit has ever taken a razor blade to my nut sack for a late-nite goof.
In spite of Clapton’s irritating drone and these criminal wack-off acoustic sessions no one’s liked since his "Unplugged" drivel, I can relate to some of it. In "Sweet Home Chicago," he croons "Baby, don’t you want to go back from Atlanta, California to my sweet home Chicago." What I’m hearing is: "Baby don’t you want to go back near the refrigerator so I can slam your head in with the freezer door."
And it’s a short jump from that to "Baby I love you, but you don’t love me" and "I’m gonna beat my woman until I get satisfied" from the track titled "Me And The Devil Blues."
I’ll make Clapton a deal. I’ll retire my white coat if he’ll stop making these theme-restaurant albums. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll pray to Robert J that the House of Blues burns down with Clapton and his master tapes in it.
