So mumbled Brian Wilson when he arrived at the home of Cal E. Fornia, the mod for the group, actually an overweight Dutchman who likes to record himself making animal noises.
Brian, doing anything to promote a new movie about what a "troubled genius" he was, was even willing to drop in on parties staged by fan groups on Facebook. But he was incredulous to see only men.
"But...those small, round tanned butts, uh, they, err, they all look like Mike Love's face. Uh. Aren't there, err, uh, any girls in your group??"
The sad truth is that with the fey production stylings of Van Dyke Parks, the too-sweet harmonies, and the pansy-esque nature of "sunshine" music, The Beach Boys now only appeal to gay men.
The women who once thought The Beach Boys were as hot as the Beatles are all in their 60's, with flabby tits, flabby butts, and dried-apricot-vaginas. Their leathery, scaly skin makes them so unsightly they can't go out anywhere, unless they want to be mistaken for members of the Godzilla Fan Club.
"But, err, uhh," Brian Wilson stammered, "I see a huge crowd at Beach Boys concerts that Mike Love puts together with a fake band."
"The audience are all holograms," he was told. "Mike is very rich, and actually is more brain damaged than you are, so his family and friends can afford to book a venue and put up a green screen in front of him with projected holograms. It's all a fake."
Brian, dazed and confused, muttered "I'm a genie's ass." Cal E. Fornia, tears streaming from his eyes while his nipples exuded something resembling snotty, melted gouda cheese, corrected him: "You are a GENIUS," he sobbed. "You are, and will always be. Although my fondest dream is to get it down the throat and up the ass from Levitt & McClure."
The fat Dutchman then went over to the naked men and gave each one a reward for showing up: a 2 TB drive filled with everything The Beach Boys ever did. "They are the greatest group of all time," the fat old man assured them. He was, of course, wrong.
The Beach Boys, like the Four Tops and The Four Seasons, basically sang the same old song over and over, under a different title. "Help Me Rhonda" and "Little Deuce Coupe" and "Wouldn't It Be Nice" are the same song.
Like The Supremes, give 'em credit for creating a trademark sound, and then flogging it to death. With the exception of the oh-so-brilliant "Good Vibrations" and the oh-so-sensitive "In My Room," their output is trivial junk. To claim that either The Beach Boys or The Four Seasons were competition for The Beatles is insulting at worst, and wishful thinking as best. The Beatles didn't do the same thing over and over, and "Pet Fart Sounds" or "Smiley Limpwrist" are in no way in the same league as "Sgt. Pepper" or even the botchy side of "Abbey Road" with bits and pieces of songs stitched together.
Brian, getting paler and paler, took one last look at the snickering naked guys, who had "Fun Fun Fun" and "Dance Dance Dance" playing over and over on a boombox.
"Well, er, uh, well..." he stumble-mumbled, "this is almost like a reunion of The Beach Boys. I mean, I'm staring at a bunch of assholes."
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