Kenny’s first-ever autobiography, Luck or Something Like It, releases on October 2, 2012! Kenny wants to thank you for your unending support “through the years” by offering an exclusive preview excerpt from the book to his fan community. This exclusive sneak peek is available only to those who are directly connected to Kenny through his social networks.
I was staying on the outskirts of Nashville, working on some new song ideas in my hotel, when I received a call from Larry Butler. Now, you may not know Larry’s name, but you know his work. He was the legendary producer behind the some of the greatest hits of yours truly, Johnny Cash, John Denver, and countless more. You got a call from Larry Butler, you listened.
I’m gonna fuck a goat and set a school on fire. I’m gonna inject my wang with saline so it’s nine inches long and four inches wide and then run naked through a church service. I’m gonna eat a Volvo 240 station wagon and shit out a perfectly sculpted steel statue of Minnie Pearl fully nude delivering an infant Kenny Rogers while forest creatures look on in awe. I’m gonna grow six extra tits and suckle a pack of needy orphans. I’m gonna huff household cleaning products ’till my eyes look like an albino rabbit and take a journey that is at once within myself and also to the outermost reaches of the cosmos. It will last a lifetime but when I look at my watch only seconds will have passed.
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. Continue reading
Not gonna lie: these are dark times. The thing that bugs me the most is that I’m never going to find a nice girl. It’s partly because, well– there are a shitload of reasons, but the only one coming from me is that I’m now a machine geared toward getting unprotected sex as fast as possible.
And this definitely does fuck with you. “One becomes as incapable of love as an old slag,” as a brilliant man once said. I’ve become a dating hack. I wear the same outfit every time, go to the same place, arrange the chairs the same way, go for the makeout at the same moment, etc. etc. etc. It’s all so rote that there is no way I could possibly have any exciting discovery about the other person. There is no way you could get in through some little crack in my persona and make me feel anything.
I was contemplating this as I watched clips of Kenny Rogers’ 1982 cinematic masterpiece SIX PACK. In it, Kenny plays a jaded racecar driver who, through a series of contrivances, is forced to take on a group of half a dozen (or “pack” of “six”) orphans whom he catches trying to steal his spare parts. At first incensed and reluctant, he slowly grows to love these lucky children and becomes a father figure to them. Many think that Kenny was overlooked for the Oscar that year, but few know that at a secret meeting the academy decided that lumping Kenny in with inferiors such as Olivier and Brando would only sully his name. And giving Kenny the award would render all future Oscars meaningless– you would simply have to award Kenny the prize again and again each year, for SIX PACK. The film also suffered controversy after sixteen year old costar Diane Lane gave birth to an infant with a perfectly groomed white beard.
A young Lane can’t contain her lustful gaze as Rogers’ musk awakens her steaming pubescent loins. Continue reading
Note: this biography is about Kenneth Donald “Kenny” Rogers the golden-voiced and immaculately bearded performer, not the dog.
1938. Small town on the outskirts of Houston, Texas. A rough-hewn town. Out in the cracked Texas plains. Tumbleweeds, cactuses, possibly other succulents. Scrub and chaparral. Low slung bungalows with no indoor plumbing. Instead a pineboard outhouse with a quarter moon shaped hole carved in the door like outhouses always have, that the locals refer to by some quaint vernacular such as “the jakes.”
The type of town that has a sign saying “N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you in (TOWN NAME),” which implies weirdly that they would be welcome in the daytime. N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you here– but by day, enjoy our fine restaurants and shops. Maybe it’s a courtesy. Like, they have vampires that only prey on blacks. Continue reading
Today is the day. Today is the day that YOU adopt Kenny Rogers, the dog. You, with your generous backyard and one or more persons on the premises at all times, with your adequate energy to get out to the park and toss the beast a tennis ball. You who are not the kind of douchebag that has a steroidal pit bull struggling on a length of Home Depot chain so you can look like a badass in your powder blue track suit, but who does secretly relish that your totalitarian secret police dog could probably kick that dog’s ass. You who has kids and/ or valuable possessions and is in need of a guard dog who looks really scary and mean but would probably just lick the intruders, but is effective as a deterrent because the sign that says “Warning: Attack Dog” has a picture of your actual dog on it. Today is the day. Today is the day you go to the East Valley Animal Shelter on Vanowen Avenue in Van Nuys and ask to check out an intact male German Shepherd officially known as “Baby G.” But that is his slave name. His real name is of course Kenneth Donald “Kenny” Rogers, because he picked a fine time to leave his abusive former home. Because he knew when to walk away, and knew when to run. Because baby when you met him there was peace unknown; you set out to groom his burr-laden undercoat with a fine toothed comb. Because don’t take your love to town.
Some of you may remember from it being two inches below these words that we had a dog named Kenny Rogers, and were wrestling with whether to return him to a possibly neglectful home.
It’s now a bit out of our hands. Kenny jumped the fence at Nikol’s house and wandered up to some woman who turned him in to the animal shelter.
In a way, this kicks ass, because both the phone numbers off his avid chip were disconnected (we did end up trying them). The shelter can’t get a hold of his owner. So for him to get the dog back, he would have to take action, meaning, he wants the dog and therefore gives a shit. If he doesn’t give a shit, which seems more likely, the dog will go up for adoption on June 5th.
We found a dog in the park. Me and Nikol, and this other girl. Walking in the middle of Elysian Park on this long dirt road, we saw in the distance what looked like a gigantic coyote or a small bear stumbling drunkenly around, digging up shit, and eating sticks. Getting closer it was just a huge German shepherd. Little beat up but a handsome beast, and with a collar on, so we figured some jerkoff would come jogging up the road behind his Gestapo enforcement dog that he’d let roam free in a public space frequented by small children.
But no. No one came. And getting a closer look at the dog he’d been fucked up by something. Patches of fur falling off, walking funny, and the top half of both ears were missing. Like he’d tangled with something that had bitten them off; they were just lumpy black skin scabbed over. Continue reading
Today I’m afraid we must venture into the darker corners of Kenny.
A devoted Kenny fan such as yourself will know that in the last decade Kenny has undergone a series of cosmetic surgeries, turning into a hideous, shiny shell of Kenny. Worse, he has disconnected the goatee portion of his beard from his iconic mane by removing his lustrous Civil War-era muttonchops.
Kenny as a young man never looked quite right. His face was chubby and oafish, and his tawny, sloppily feathered hair made him look like a drunken St. Bernard. No matter how high he climbed on the charts, his unconventional appearance must have haunted him. Yes, Kenny is the closest thing we have to a god. But also a man, with human insecurities. Continue reading
Just popped a couple ‘ludes and took down a shot of Wild Turkey; tore off a piece of fresh backwoods poon like only Kenny Rogers knows how. Stepping onstage with the First Edition behind me, about to level the place when I tell ‘em “don’t take your love to town.”