Sick Mystic: Kind Of Like Wolfmother, But Less Decent And More Shitty

Genre: Rock

Location: Los Angeles, CA

Let me paint a picture:

A retired 59 year old man named Robert steps onto his three wheeled motorcycle with compartment bags on either side. The two compartments are for holding his valuables which include a Hawaiian shirt, a vaporizer (His wife bought it for him so he can help quit smoking.) and one ticket to the Bellagio resort in Las Vegas. He brings Mini along with him, an extremely overweight dachshund who has a violent, frothing-mouth hatred of golf balls and vacuums. Roberts wife has suggested bringing Mini to a dog psychologist, but Robert thinks it would be too pricy.

Much like Robert, this band thinks they’re all that when they’re actually not. They, like Robert, fancy themselves to be some kind of sex machine in its prime when actually, they are flaccid as fuck. Viagra would be a great sponsor for them, but they are so limp that Viagra would have to make a new, extra-strength version of their product in order for it to work. But of course, Robert’s wife stopped putting out a long time ago, because Robert’s hairline went the way of his vigor and his belly went the other way-so nowadays he couldn’t get laid in a morgue. This band couldn’t either. This music is some serious chick repellant. WAIT, I have a tag line for this band! Sick Mystic kills libido dead! Don’t get me wrong, slow and hard has its place, just like this music, but it needs life, too-and it has none, just like Robert.

He starts the motorized tricycle and pops in a CD of Sick Mystic. The song Party Animal always makes his head bob, this time the weight of the bulbous helmet makes his neck sore so he stops. He pulls out of the garage, almost riding the bike directly into the grill, but NO, he saves it at the last minute right as the chorus picks up in the song. He found the strength somewhere within the melody. He thinks “Heck yeah” knowing that for the first time in years his wife isn’t around to know that he is swearing in his head.

Robert thinks he’s rocking out, but of course he’s not. Just like this band. They clearly put a lot of work into their presentation because just like Robert, they think they’re worth it. And they are…this is the most elaborate display of middle-aged basic bitch that you’re ever going to find! They obsess over their songwriting the same way Robert obsesses over which polo shirt he’s going to wear today…for fucks sake guys, just choose a riff and a polo shirt, they’re all the same!

Unfortunately, every (FUCKING) release has one song on it, so for the duration of the 70 mile trip, Robert is switching the CD’s every four minutes. Robert loves this band, but because all the songs sound the same, it has psychologically destroyed Mini, leaving her in a fit of constant machine gun like barks. With the bellagio on the horizon, Robert smiles to himself as the riffs echo through his brain. He thinks “It can’t get better than this.” and inserts Party Animal into the CD player one more time. Mini jumps off the motorcycle.

That’s right, this music doesn’t just kill libidos with its lack of class and originality, it will even kill your pets…who even then, won’t put out for you because you’re just that much of a basic bitch now.








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