If I’m writing, I have to listen to either wordless shit — exotica is usually my go-to, and those Ultra-Lounge compilations are gold — or else stuff so ingrained in my head it counts as wordless. Which means a lot of metal albums from between about 1990-1993. Vulgar Display of Power, Meantime, La Sexorcisto, Angel…

Next you’re going to tell me former Faith No More guitarist Jim Martin is only growing champion-sized pumpkins to smuggle meth.

FINALLY, we get to discover how Han learned the intricacies of flying casual.

This all-female Cool Runnings reboot is ruining my childhood.

Don’t forget Grover Cleveland taking a fucking boat out to sea to have a tumor removed from his mouth and then told everyone he was just fishing.

I’m still allowed to tie the lobsters to a tiny chair and connect a car battery to their genitals, administering shocks every 20 minutes until they tell me where the Lobster Kingdom keeps all its scavenged Spanish doubloons, though, right?

The real hero of this movie is Woody Harrleson’s bag.

Bring back the Roadster, cowards.

What did you do about your father’s disappointment?

There is TREMENDOUS Christmas music that gets release every year. It’s just that most people don’t give that much of a fuck about looking for it. Last year, The Melvins released the best version of “Carol of the Bells” you’ve ever heard. THE MELVINS!

That would be Lil Jon. Though the confusion is understandable.

Just go all the way and hire Flav directly. His experience running a chicken-and-waffles joint that failed almost immediately after opening makes him a perfect fit for the administration.

I mean ... I don’t doubt you’re right, but is “being the first to that sweet Bon Jovi sound” really the thing you want as your legacy?

Nobody liked the new Queens of the Stone Age? That and the new Toadies record were strong. The LCD and Beck albums were both disappointing snoozefests.

The shame of Schenectady

Truly, this is the refined bloat of the Black Album to DMX’s earlier, lean-mean Kill ‘em All red-nosed reindeer style.

This deserves way more love.

God DAMMIT, Bjork.

Look, you guys, I don’t want to scare anyone, but I saw Choo-Choo walk out that door, and I’m pretty sure he’s gone forever now. Might never have existed, may have ceased to exist. I can’t really say. All I know for sure is: No more Choo-Choo.

I get that any celeb gets a free pass for yelling “Fuck Trump,” but come on. This is bad and clunky.