I was googling “Kenny motherfucking Rogers” last night, as is my God given duty as an American. I came across this post on a Phish fan forum in response to negative comments about Kenny’s performance of “The Gambler” with the band:
jilliebean(OP) • Mon Jun 11, 2012 12:40 PM:
You shut the fuck up and you have some god damned mother fucking respect. This man is a damned legend. No fuck that he is a LEGEND. He is musical royalty and you better bow down to the awesomeness that is the fucking Gambler. He is a real man. He is the kind of man who would fuck you up in the street old school style, with his fists and then he would fuck your woman after dinner and leave her before breakfast riding away on the back of a fucking horse and THEN he would write a beautiful song about it which would sell 250 million copies. And do you know what your girlfriend would do then? She would spend the rest of her fucking life reliving that beautiful act of love over and over in her mind and crying herself to sleep while touching herself wishing that you were a real man like Kenny. He knew when to hold them and when to fucking fold them. He fucked the likes of Dolly Parton, he is fucking a hotter girl right now than you will ever get and today, at 70 years old he could still take you behind the wood shed, kick your ass and then fuck your wook girlfriend just for fun. He was drinking hard and smoking and fucking before you were even a gleam in your mother’s eye. So you shut your pie hole you asses, or Kenny will come and shut it for you.
This is a woman who wrote this. A woman. No man would call himself “Jillie Bean.” Unfortunately “Jillie Bean” is a popular myspace and facebook and twitter and blog name so I have no hope of combing through the dozens of false Jillie Beans to discover the one true Jillie Bean whom I could impregnate with the Kwisatz Haderach of Kenny appreciators.
Who are you, Jillie Bean? Where are you on this cold dark planet, under a blanket of stars as white and lustrous as Kenny’s beard? When the cold wind blows, do the strains of his roadworn Texas baritone snake out from between grace notes to embrace you in warmth? Are we truly apart, if we are together in Kenny?