Hoppers sons punk, &c.

Hello PUNKS!

As you may have heard from a recent mass e-mail I sent about a sweet celebrities-only Labor Day party I'm throwing, I'm done-done with punk. I'm taking all the money I made off it, investing that money into restarting my publicity firm Hopper PR, and blitzing
full-time for today's last true artists: black major-label rappers and investment bankers. A lot of these bankers have the songs and the spirit but not the industry savvy, and as you know, music is first and foremost a business.

That, and obviously punk sucks now too. Let me tell you a story about how much punk has fallen in just ten years, the time I've been here on PP: Eight years ago me and Anne Elizabeth Moore were lying naked butts up next to each other, sharing earbuds listening to
Hanson's "MMMbop" and taking turns getting fucked by Norm Arenas before he went gay.
Sometimes Anne would kiss my titties and I would have to remind her: "ANNE! The kids! What about activism for kids?!" "You're right, Jessica. I *am* a cunt. I'm the reason our future book tour will have poor attendance." And then she would stop sucking my titties bonedry and get back to begging me not to leave the magazine.

Think about that story, and now compare it to 2006. I'm at the Punk Planet OFFICES walking around in a skirt I bought from a corporation and makeup that I bought from the department store that tests all its products on animals. Dan Sinker is in his office using the hole of the first Bikini Kill CD to jerk off all over another copy of the first Bikini Kill CD that he bought expressly for this purpose. Ben Weasel, sworn enemy of this very magazine, is videotaping Sinker, giving him the thumbs up while reading aloud old copies of Heart Attack over a podcast he's going to sell to Interscope. Everywhere you look a black guy is
rapping about how much better the scene has gotten since Braid signed to a major. "That's true," types PP columnist Al Burian. "Now Braid has a shot at MTV, home of the real punks." I should mention I'm also videotaping this whole thing for my personal press kit, AND reading the latest copy of Rolling Stone, my favorite magazine.

Do you see what I'm getting at? If Punk is dead on PUNK PLANET--whereeverything from the computers to the riot grrrl interns eating potato chips secretly made of Billy Joe Armstrong's foreskin are punk *and* planetary--what are you going to do? Pretend that My Chemical Romance isn't the best band in the world, a/k/a REAL PLANET? Pretend that me and Steve Albini *actually* hate each other? Act like I'm not five blowjobs away from turning Stephin Merritt straight again?

Even the last week--my first away from punk--has been awesome for me. Every day I'm making bands on major labels more popular than ever, giving them handjobs while I write their one sheets with my abnormally long, ink-injected clitoris. I'm hanging out with major label rappers all the time now, and we're going to go to all the independent record stores in your town and switching the Dirtnap seven-inches with ziplock freezer bags of black man cum--the digitally copyright-protected kind. Good luck trying to rip this cum onto your hard drive!

Loose ends: A lot of you were pretty angry with me about that piece I wrote re: the emo rock being sexist. I felt for a lot of you, especially the 13- and 14-year-olds wearing Misfits jackets who anxiously await the arrival of Punk Planet to their houses so they can read the record reviews, go buy the records major-distributed indie labels pay us to recommend, then roll the magazine really tight around both their penises while having a tug-of-war and shitting their vegan brains out because the human body is supposed to
eat, wear, and when necessary kill endangered animals in cold-blood. Hey vegans, stop having tug-of-wars and eat a fucking burger already!

But here's something else I need to tell you about that emo rock piece: I didn't write it! Silent Interscope record exec Nick Sylvester, who listens to gangsta rap and facefucks riot grrrls as if the only Le Tigre song that exists is the DFA Remix of "Deceptacon," paid me $100 and all the Interscope band concert tickets I want to run *HIS* piece on emo rock. At first I was skeptical--only $100? What about the fucking? I wanted at least a few bands from his label to do publicity for, and five fucks minimum--six fucks. Did he not know who I am? I don't do anything for less than six fucks.

Sylvester furrowed his diamond-encrusted brow (the diamonds were bought using the money from the last Trail of Dead album), then asked me point-blank: "Are you a person who understands the importance of advertising dollars influencing the content of magazines?"

I knew the answer to that one: "You mean, am I a *real* punk?" He smiled and furrowed his brow again, dropping a few diamonds into my designer-clothed pussy. "Here's what I'll do for you. You run my provocative piece on emo rock. I'll give you my worst bands to do publicity for and six fucks. If you trick people into thinking my terrible bands are actually
good, I'll see what I can do about more fucks." I was so happy I told him to write the rest of my columns, including this one. "OK I'll do that. See you at the Gwen Stefani concert," he said. A year later we're still on fuck five--that's how good this column's been since Nick took it over. Remember, emo isn't short for "emotional," it's long for "o"--the shape of my vag after Nick bags my Punk Planet pussy 50 Cent-style.

Some parting words. One, always obey your parents, especially if you're a girl punk. If you're a girl punk and want to be successful in life, take your parents' advice and fuck your way to the top. Two, go to church. There's a fine line between fake punks like Gorilla Biscuits and real punks like Lenny Kravitz and the chick who plays drums in the "Are You Gonna Go My Way?" video, which is that Kravitz and that chick go to church pretty much every Sunday. Church is a time to reflect on the big questions in punk rock today. Where is my white belt made out of the drummer from Green Day's vegan foreskin? Where is my other white belt with the sassy vagina I drew on it? What would punk Jesus do? Well! Punk Jesus would find those two white belts, trade them in for nice black leather belts that businessmen wear, then casually use his stigmata to jerk himself off all over your town's next punk rock flea market. It's gonna be the biggest major label deal of all time.