“And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die,
And if a 10-ton truck kills the both of us, to die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.”
– Morrissey, from “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” 1986
It was 28 years ago that former lead singer of the influential ’80s British band The Smiths and patron saint of 15-year-olds who self-harm Steven Patrick Morrissey, better known as Morrissey, teased us all unmercifully with these lyrics, allowing us to imagine some Final Destination-like world where people who insist upon being sad for sad’s sake are flattened immediately by large, moving vehicles. Now wouldn’t that be awesome, were it true.
The Moz is usually game to speak to the press about anything, ever proud to show off the latest stick that’s shoved up his ass.
Of course, as you’ve probably guessed, it is not. The ever melancholy Morrissey is very much alive and kicking, having released an autobiography in December documenting his life and decadeslong career. He’s been in the media quite a bit, sometimes shit-talking the British royals, sometimes responding to questions about his book. The Moz is usually game to speak to the press about anything, ever proud to show off the latest stick that’s shoved up his ass.
One of those sticks received a fair amount of press in November and happened to be named Barack Obama. The president earned Morrissey’s ire by granting a pardon, as per the well-established Thanksgiving tradition, to the White House turkey (coincidentally, “White House Turkey” is Joe Biden’s real Secret Service code name).
Morrissey, a longtime animal rights activist who penned the song “Meat Is Murder,” took offense to the tradition, because he’s not an American and, therefore, can’t understand freedom. And also, apparently, cannot understand the concept of a presidential pardon.
The turkey in question, who could not be reached for comment by press time, was given $20 and dropped off at the Greyhound station, according to White House sources.
Morrissey’s autobiography, the oddly named Autobiography, does contain much of what you’d expect from the complainingest despair pot ever known to humankind, but also features a few revelations – for instance, a two-year relationship he had with a young male photographer, a relationship that was later completely excised out of the American version of the book, likely because this is a girl-on-girl kind of country.
The singer, believed to be gay since one was able to identify homosexual males by which ear was pierced, instead self-identifies as a “humasexual,” which is sort of like admitting that one is a Jergen’s hand lotion-asexual, or that you just like anything or anyplace already warm.
Nothing can explain his startling lack of self-awareness. This is a man who recently likened eating meat to pedophilia.
Morrissey, of course, takes full advantage of the opportunity to settle old scores in his book, making it completely obvious that he is very much so the damaged, bitter, and morose man you’d expect. Beneath the surface, though, is a sharp and dry wit that helps explain somewhat how one artist can be so adored by so many and so loathed by my friend Ruby42.
Nothing can explain his startling lack of self-awareness, however. This is a man who recently likened eating meat to pedophilia, after all, a man who wrote a song about it NOT being your birthday.
On the heels of his book release, His Miserableness has also just signed a solo contract with Capitol Records and is slated to release an album sometime in 2014. May your inner angst-ridden teen be ready for this catty old queen. It would surely be easier for all of us to stay on the man’s good side … if he had one.