Ozzy’s Wife Trashes Billy Corgan!
Let pedantic "‘Ever But then, Sanchez "‘Why
Sanchez first say that he would question the judgment of Corgan for hiring a
manager prone to talking shit about her clientele in public, regardless of their
relative levels of brattitude. And, secondly, confused Sanchez must admit he
has no idea what qualified her for the job in Corgan’s eyes, excluding
hauling an overweight alcoholic has-been by his hair into a solo career. "Indeed,"
interjected the Sister of Sanchez smartassedly, "the smartassed
Sister of Sanchez interjects: ‘there’ll be no hair-hauling what with
Corgan’s Uncle Fester coif!’" Relieved Sanchez is ever
so glad to have family around to deliver the de rigueur cheap shot on
the Corgan Dome. But he digresses: whereas Osbourne may have drawn a sign on
her forehead reading ARTISTS! DO NOT HIRE THIS BLAME GAME LOSER!, Sanchez suggests
that a subtler reading of such hotheaded remarks might unearth a long-needed
plea for artists to give up a pathological urge to be renaissance men. "‘Oh!
For the days when every interview didn’t contain umpteen earnest
repetitions of the word business,’ laments the Sister of Sanchez,"
the Sister of Sanchez lamented. And conceding Sanchez must credit his Sister’s
sharpness; why, there was once a day when guitar players expanded their horizons
by learning the piano. Not so these days, with Fred Durst-directed
videos, Will Smith-owned management companies, Blink-182-run skater-merch
websites and every MC and their mom photographed while draped clownishly in
their own line of cookie-cutter designer streetwear.
so Street! Street! Street!’ lustfully pants the Sister of Sanchez!"
the Sister of Sanchez panted lustfully. With the advent of home-studio technology,
already the industry has begun to expect every lazy stoner who spent a decade’s
worth of couch potato time learning Led Zeppelin licks on the guitar
to now, without regard to the learning curve on what is essentially a much bigger
musical instrument with a lot more knobs on it, efficiently produce their own
recordings at home. But rueful Sanchez informs his dedicated public better than
that: the demise of expertise, Sanchez insists, might mean that the kvetching
about the downturn in musical quality that began when the boomers got too old
for their Cream LPs ("‘Tiny purple fishes run laughing through
your fingers,’ quotes the Sister of Sanchez astutely," the Sister
of Sanchez astutely quoted) might actually come to pass, and become more than
the boo-hooing of oldsters robbed of a hobby.
has no time for scolding, pressed, as he is, to come up with a logo for his
soon-to-be-debuted line of clothing at Sanchezcouture.org, and to persuade his
editor to allow him both producer and executive producer credits, as well as
a byline, on his own column. And the Sister of Sanchez? "The ambitious
Sister of Sanchez has schemes to open either a nail salon or an auto body shop
to capitalize on her considerable brand name value," schemed the ambitious
Sister of Sanchez. "¿Quién es más Buttafuoco?"
do they never run a photograph of Mr. Blackwell along with his yearly
rankings and yankings?’ wonders aloud the Sister of Sanchez," the
Sister of Sanchez wondered aloud. "Perhaps a look-see at the bizarre old
fruit in his tinted spectacles would lessen the impact of his annual list?"
Startled Sanchez must rush in to note that the blasphemous blatherings
of his Sister must not be confused with the opinions of Sanchez! The seemingly
otherwise-jobless Blackwell, who is frequently referred to as a fashion "maven,"
included Fiona Apple and Britney Spears in the list he released
last week, describing Apple as "a kinked and curled Kewpie Doll wrapped
in a collection of yesterday’s fatal fashion frights." Always-alliterative
Sanchez applauds admiringly! Mr. Blackwell: You my nigga! The positive
side of the list oohs and aahs over such bright sartorial lights as Queen
Elizabeth. "‘Why, who won’t they give column inches
to these days,’ yelped the Sister of Sanchez despairingly," despairingly
yelped the Sister of Sanchez, who managed to crack a rolled-up newspaper on
her brother’s knuckles–who made a most prudent attempt to delete-key
her incautious quote into oblivion–before he could erase her dangerous
sentiment.