For the hundredth time, it’s not a demo. It’s a master recording for an artist named Elvis Nash. I’m not making a sellout Suno song for a penny.
I’ll buy another fucking guitar. Money comes and goes. Time doesn’t. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Nobody at the funeral says, “Damn shame about Elvis, but at least he saved $800 on studio time.”
The government? They’re the Mafia with better stationery. You have to pay them or they break your legs financially. No biggie. Make more money. Record more songs. Maybe I’ll become famous in China. There are a billion people over there. Statistically, somebody has to like me.
The government says, “We want your money.”
What do I get?
“Roads.”
There’s a pothole outside my house big enough to qualify for waterfront property.
Then we’re building giant AI data centers so computers can write fucking Suno songs. Farmers are standing there going, “You took 800 acres for WHAT?”
“A robot needed to rhyme ‘fire’ with ‘desire.’”
Stupid humans. We finally invented artificial intelligence because the natural kind wasn’t working out.
And a demo is what you send to publishers while everybody tells you, “This could be on the radio.”
Sure. And my retirement plan is a lottery ticket.
Maybe if you’re a staff writer for Sony you’ve got a shot.
“How many writers were on that hit?”
“Ten.”
Why ten?
“Well, three were stupid, two ordered lunch, four argued over the chorus, and we hired a Mexican guy to write the bridge.”
“Why him?”
“He was the only guy in the room who knew where the song was going.”
Sometimes I think I’ll buy some coke for old times’ sake and visit my past. Then I remembered I’m old. Where the hell do you even find a drug dealer in this economy? Mine probably has a 401(k), three rental properties, and only takes appointments.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. I have to drive six hours to make money. I also help support a family in the Philippines because apparently my financial adviser is Malibu Jesus.
“You should diversify your investments, Elvis.”
“I did. Half goes to music and half goes to the Philippines.”
“And your retirement?”
“Powerball.”
I wanted a younger wife. Nobody explained there was an international maintenance agreement.
But I’ll give Asia this: family still means something. In America you turn 70 and society starts looking at you like an old refrigerator.
“Still running?”
“Yeah.”
“[naughty word removed]. We thought this thing would be gone by now.”
Not me. I’m buying guitars, recording songs, driving six hours to make money, and refusing to behave appropriately for my age.
And while we’re correcting history, Jesus probably didn’t look like some blond guy from Wisconsin selling insurance.
He was a Middle Eastern man walking around in robes, preaching peace and pissing off the government.
Come to think of it, Jesus probably looked a hell of a lot closer to Marvin Gaye than Brad Pitt.
That ought to piss everybody off equally.
My work here is done.



Ai is good for making jokes work like songs. He's cheating , so are you selling out to Suno

Last edited by bennash; 09/04/26 07:39 AM.
We’re all built from the same dust and dreams,
Different roads, but the same means.