You Fail Me: Nikki Sixx

Man, I can't even tell you the cloak and dagger shit young me had to perpetrate just to peep some naked lady pictures. Dudes over 20 years of age, you feel me: The biological need for open-mouthed knocker-gawking transformed each of us into master thieves, lockpicks, and liars. I started no fewer than two house fires to see the good scene in Just One Of The Guys for fuck's sake.

Times have changed, thank you internets. I don't know my sister's middle name, but assemble a line-up and I could identify dozens of celebrity vaginas from about 50 feet. At dusk. 

That said, I'd give up Megan Fox (above) and the internet tomorrow if someone could stop Nikki Sixx from making records, the brainless hack. Motley Crue's new embarrassment Saints Of Los Angeles is a vomitous, contrived chunk of shit. And Sixx: A.M., counterpart to the bimbo's wildly implausible addiction memoirs, succeeded only in making me feel sorry for heroin. Poor heroin. 

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