Hey, Pete. How's it going? It's me, Andy. First off, I want to thank you for returning all my phone calls, emails, and letters. That was really considerate of you.
Oh, sorry. Wait a minute. What I meant to say was the complete opposite of that. I know you don't know me and I'm sure you must get a lot of fan correspondences and all that, but Jesus, man. I've been writing to you since I was in high school. One quick reply would not kill you. But no, I guess you thought it might. And so that's why I had to come to your place.
OK and yeah, I know. You called the police and they're on their way. First of all, really scared. Secondly, don't flatter yourself. I'm not that kind of stalker. And thirdly, this will only take a minute. I'll long be out of your hair by the time they get here.
Since the clock is ticking, let me get to the point, because you have no idea how long this has been bothering me: Baba O'Reilly? Seriously? Baba O'Goddamned Reilly? Dude, there's no freaking way you don't call that song Teenage Wasteland. No way. Teenage Wasteland is what it should be called. Like, absolutely. It's not even fucking close. I've listened to that cocksucker about 47 bazillion times and not fucking once have I said to myself, "You know, on second thought it makes perfect sense that this song is called Baba O'Reilly even though the name Baba O'Reilly isn't mentioned once."
Tell me, Pete: When you shared that name with the rest of the band, what did you say? "Oi, lads, you know that song that's all about a teenage wasteland? I've finally found the perfect name for it. Are you sitting down? I shall call it Baba O'Reilly? Why? Because I'm a mopey-eyed, big-eared fuckwit, that's why."
Wow. That felt good. Glad I got that out of my system.
But hold on, chief. I'm not done with you yet. I want to talk to you about your boy, Tommy, you know the Pinball Wizard? At one point in the song you divulge that the guy plays pinball by sense of Goddamned smell. Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick, Pete. That is without a doubt the most jaw-droppingly inane shit I've heard in my life. Like, ever. The kid is deaf, dumb and blind. And I'm sure his other senses have been honed to greater acuity to compensate for his lack of hearing and vision, but to the point where he could play fucking pinball by sense of smell? He's deaf, dumb, and blind. Christ, does he even know he's playing pinball? I'm guessing he just stands there and hits the flippers like a motherfucker. That's what I would do. I mean, not to take anything away from him, but come on. It ain't smell that tells him when to hit the flipper. He's just hitting them. Go sell that sense of smell bullshit to someone else.
Jesus, are those sirens I hear already? Those cops are quick. I guess I'll have to run through the rest of these grievances really fast.
That voice you use on Boris the Spider? Ridiculous. Dignity: 1. You: nothing.
Mu-Mu-Mu-My Ge-Ge-Ge-Generation? Dude, I have a sister who stutters. That shit ain't funny.
"Mama's got a squeezebox she wears on her chest?" Dude, I'm sorry, but what is a fucking squeezebox? Is it a prosthesis of some sort? Some sort of respiratory aid? A slang expression for accordion? I don't know because "my generation" doesn't say that.
One more thing: Enough with the greatest hits collections, OK? Fucking hell, man. How many of those have you guys put out? Do you even know? "Hey, we haven't re-released the same bloody songs in a slightly different order in almost six weeks. Let's see what we can do about that! We can call this next one My Generation: The Ultimate All Time Absolute Best Best of the Who. We haven't used that name yet, have we?" Prick.
Crap, that's the cops. I didn't even get to your solo shit. Next time.
Oh yeah, and the best part of Won't Get Fooled Again is when Roger yells "YEAAAAHH!" after the extended instrumental interlude.
Ta ta!
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