While the West is hung up on hating and getting laid with itself, the East is amassing an arsenal of bootlegged Rock & Roll records with which to annihilate its weakened, auto-tuned disco opponents.  There is a sect of the Eastern Orthodox Music Scene that reads my lyrics to its parishioners, not unlike how Bill & Ted recited classic rock lyrics to impress attractive Medieval chicks in the 1980s.  Here's a picture of Vladimir Putin receiving a bootlegged sacrament of one form or another from a Russian record store employee wearing the vestments appropriate to the office.

That's a shadow of the Pablo Smog logo on Putin's forehead, actually.  It's not a tattoo.  Most likely, it was cast by the headpiece of the Staff of Pablo Smog, which was a primitive way of finding the best local record stores and live music venues, before search engines were invented.  You'd bring the staff into the local map room at a certain time of day, and the sun would shine through the headpiece and shine on the best record stores and live music venues in the city.  The map room was usually located next to a hipster coffee shop, and you could get a cappuccino and a can of chocolate hair mousse with which to impress your friends, before strolling over to the record store to find a super-rare Pablo Smog bootleg to add to your collection.

No copies of the headpiece of the Staff of Pablo Smog are known to exist.  Most historical children mistook them for giant cookies, and ate them.  Indeed, most of them were made of gingerbread, or vulcanized lollipop material.  You could buy them pretty much anywhere.

Here's a picture of Indiana Jones looking for a record store in Cairo in the 1930s.  In all likelihood, he too consumed the headpiece after finding what he was looking for, whether the secret location of The Well of Souls or a limited-edition copy of All The Diamonds You Can Eat.  If he didn't eat the headpiece himself, he probably gave it to Marion as a Valentine's gift.

So, why is Vladimir Putin having my lyrics read to him by an Eastern Orthodox record store employee after meeting with Xi Jinping to compare their pirated Western music collections, if NOT to prepare for thermulonukular war with the West? 

Having lost the war of attrition with terminal illiteracy, bumbling, unqualified ice-cream enthusiasts pretending to be the American president, and decades of "rappers" who refer to the music industry as "the game" and think Kanye West is a genius, smart people everywhere have banded together to open the George W. Bush School of Oratory Prowess, to bring the standards of the culture back up to a place we at least have the luxury of ignoring in peace, if we want to.  The George W. Bush School of Oratory Prowess will include a Leadership program, in which you learn to sit, paralyzed with indecision in an elementary-school classroom reading children's books as the nation is attacked by CIA assets.... while fully dressed in clothing appropriate for a professional adult male.  Instead of prancing around in your underwear, teaching children to twerk while flashing your junk at them in a room full of weak, frustrated single mothers who have only begun to pay for their numerous mistakes, you will instead learn to trip over your words like a man.

Also, since literacy is for the patriarchy, we are changing the word "thermonuclear" to "thermulonukular."  Nobody knows how to say nuclear anymore, so we're going to change the word, to make the illiterati feel better about themselves.  We are also removing all variations of the word "your," so that now there's only one, even as we expand the definition of gender to include 70 or 80 varieties.  This way, when you go to the Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors shop of indecisive, non-existent sexual identity, you don't have to decide which "your" to apply to your recurring cycle of furious regret.  You can just say "your a man now," indicating the possession of your new, imaginary identity, without having to be bothered with chromosomes, apostrophes, and other obstacles to permanent, life-altering freedom.

Also, because life is a hoax, the earth is "flat," the shooter's shoes in the CCTV footage don't match her shoes on the badge cam, and Jewish astronauts drove across the surface of the moon on an electric lawn chair to build equity in Manhattan's Diamond District for the purposes of keeping the black man down with bling...

For these reasons and more, I have unilaterally decided to change the name of the memory of the Holocaust to the Hula Coast, a fantastical paradise of idyllic bliss.  The Boys from Brazil escaped to the Hula Coast after the Enola Gay dropped a grilled swiss cheese sandwich on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, helping the Japanese people to rebuild their culture with superior Alpine sandwich engineering.  In fact Hitler was a Mossad agent, before Mossad was even a thing.  Hitler worked undercover for Mossad, and helped establish the Jewish state after his death.  After the Munchkins liberated Auschwitz, they marched up to the Eagle's Crow, or the Wolf's Nest, or whatever Hitler's mountain estate was called, singing their happy little songs all the way.  Thousands of Munchkins swarmed the grounds of Hitler's estate like cute, tuneful locusts until they unearthed his last will and testament, which established not only the Jewish state, but also contained the first draft of the script for Schindler's List, and a trust to support the careers of both Stanley Kubrick and Bobby Fischer.

It's a lot of contradictory reality to take in all at once.  Let's not worry about it for now.  The main thing is the selection of mostly-depressing bug-out tunes for the coming zombie apocalypse, compiled by Pablo Smog under the glaring, surgically-painful rays of the headpiece of the Staff of Pablo Smog, which are so powerful they can cut through a thousand solid cheeseburgers from space.  The album is called Nukular Hula Coast, and is appropriately nihilistic and anti-wave.  It is the perfect soundtrack to how you're going to feel after everything has gone to hell, and the purpose of life has been drained by violent street battles and extended firefights with dead transsexuals who have acid for blood, and who wield curtain rods and rubber knives forged in the ancient, fiery basement of the cosplay store.  From the opening strains of "Everything Explodes At Its Own Pace," to the resigned, powerful nihilism in "I Make The Rules," Nukular Hula Coast is the perfect soundtrack to a dance party buried unexpectedly under 20 tons of collapsing brick.  If you do happen to find an A.I. strip club, "Robobitch" will certainly be playing in the background, as robotic, soulless deep-fake avatars remind you of the good old days of virtual sexual dissatisfaction on OnlyFans, when you were rich enough to blow your entire life savings on some webcam girl from Tacoma.  Man, those days was crazy.  Feel the blast of bootlegged Rock & Roll records falling from the sky, and the gale blowing from the rising shroom clouds in the East, as "High Orbit" envelops you and takes you on a restless journey through the 2nd Circle of Hell, in which the desires of the lustful and malcontented are torn to shreds on the gales of endless torment.

And don't miss the Rapture in "Off To The Races," after which the world will be so unbearably horrific and depressing that the self-destruction prescribed in the chorus will seem to be the only viable option.

Anyway, this is how this virtual comp album washed up on the beach of the so-called "Hula Coast," that imaginary beach from the movie Contact, or perhaps Nicaragua, which country is actually named after the nicotine additives they put in the water, so you can get your Nicorette fix every time you stand under a golden, malarial shower.

Awesome.  The future is a hoax.  A trip through hell behind a horse, dragged on a beach of smoldering, imaginary ashes.  Who will be here to watch the Russian Rock & Roll bootlegs fall like severed ceilings from the sky, dismembered musical ankles and extremities, encased in rotten leather?

Hope to God not me.  Not you either.

Thanks for listening.

Nukular Hula Coast

1. Everything Explodes At Its Own Pace
2. The Blonder of Two Evils
3. No One Seems To Hear
4. It Will Always Be Too Late For Us
5. Robobitch
6. High Orbit
7. Promised Land
8. Off To The Races
9. I Make The Rules