Serge Gainsbourg and Jerry Lee Lewis talk about music and fucking - poached by DangerousMinds.net - Marc Campbell - Richard Metzger - Vice

you can run, but you can't hide

Marc Campbell, Richard Metzger and Dangerous Minds outdid themselves in fucking me over by plagiarizing this video and post of my favorite artist and friend. 

I wish there was a way for them to reap what they sow more quickly, but I'm going to concentrate on this life now:

Metzger's in Cincinnati, preening in interviews about not knowing his staff and only paying them $79-a-post, and Campbell's in Texas.

Here's the cocksucking, no-brained, burnout loser's latest stolen post

 

weirdopedia

*Private footage never aired (for good reason)

"If videos wore clothing, this video would wear a pink, ruffled tuxedo shirt, under a leopard skin Smoking Jacket!"

Almost as excited as the day I found this and posted it on my last FB profile...and YouTube (both of which are gone).

Today after doing research and realizing that I was missing its favorite dirty uncle, whose only relation to this private x-rated, backstage, pussy-powwow is the coincidence of being taped from the same sweat lodge ... well, I finally found it stored away ... and wrote this:

Serge Gainsbourg and Jerry Lee Lewis, France, 1987

Mean fucking hair. The Defest jams in my life, courtesy of a Leopardskin Jacket--fucking drunken eyes, sir ... fucked up.

It's about incest and backstage domestics ... and honing the guitar.

It has a pink ruffled tuxedo shirt. Serge is rared up. They offer five shots of the hands in a guild of excess and neglect, no concern with opinions, morals or society.

Jerry Lee was glad to see Elvis dead.

He could finally rest. The fuck-ups were happy to be together in France--all in good humor and improbable.

This video is from a French Fan Club--it has issued clear, and God loves them for its public dissemination and for its potentiality to summit the anti-legendary heroes, never before seen together, never before heard like this (dialogue too real to be concatenated by Tosches, too exuberant to be invented for the annals of popular music).

[Late Latin concatnre, concatnt- : com-, com- + catnre, to bind (from Latin catna, chain)]

I want to burn in Hell indelibly in the soul of its irreverent lasciviousness.

Strong and strange and from their mouths, dare I say it, is its innocence.

"Quintessence, nary more picaresque."

The relationship of these two architects of the dark side--the side of the rock-roll Lethe--should be played nine-hours-per-day in a museum, somewhere between lunchtime in Paris and supper in Ferriday, where the price of admission is as padded as the upholstered, velveteen cushions on which recumbent children and men over forty commingle in Roman deflation.

I see you mouthwatering at the thought.

Open it with my blessings; connect to its memory; send it to your colleagues with its subtle message impossible to pin down; tattoo its URL to your bicep or above your butt crack; force your wife or girlfriend to recite it from memory; commit crimes against nature in its name: illegal cunnilingus, hummable fellatio (God-fearing citizens will be exalted in schadenfreude); thank God you're a fuck-up, and take as its gift its leopardskin coat.

Happiness so small and insignificant never fails a lonely summer night.

Serendipity?

Fuck him.