If you don’t like King Khan and BBQ Show, you’re wrong and we can’t be friends anymore. I’m serious. Take it on the road, fella. Granted, they are a little rough around the edges, but their image is flawless. I’m not sure what their image is, but I’ll figure it out eventually. They’re sort of intergalactic male strippers who’ve put on a little weight, and channeled the spirit of a pissed off Buddy Holly on PCP. I say that like it’s a bad thing, but it’s the best thing. This song is what I’d refer to as a screamer, because it makes you want to scream along. Not sing the words exactly, but it makes you want to scream something.

Some would call me a fan of music, but I don’t like to think of myself that way. The sort of people who demand to be called music experts are the sort of people I want to punch in the throat, so I pledge to never be like them. Don’t get me started on people who call themselves musicians because they own a guitar. That’s like demanding to be called a doctor because you have a stethoscope and one-hundred thousand dollars of student debt. It doesn’t work like that. I consider myself to be well-versed in music; nothing more. I’ve attended many concerts, discovered lots of new and interesting bands, and given many musical performances myself.

This might not excite many of you, but I’ve even been to see the final resting places of some of the most influential musicians and composers ever. I’ve seen Elvis’s grave, Mozart’s, John Lennon’s, and even Beethoven’s.

Beethoven’s grave was by far the strangest. As I approached it, I heard a low rustling sound. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but as I got closer to the grave it got louder. I walked around the tomb for a minute or two trying to pinpoint exactly where the sound was coming from. At first it sounded like it was coming from inside the tomb, but that would be absurd. I put my ear up to the exterior of the tomb, and I swear that I heard paper being crumpled.

Before I accepted that I was losing my mind and got on with my life, I decided to ask one of the locals if they could hear it as well. I grabbed the nearest doughy German woman that I could find. The master race has seen better days.

“Do you hear that? What’s the scratching noise? It sounds like someone rubbing two pieces of paper together and then crumpling them up.”

The woman looked at me as if I was insane. Fair enough. I expected her to run away and fetch the police, but she pulled me close and said:

“Of course you hear paper crumpling. Beethoven’s decomposing.”