Dear Gene Simmons, regarding your Sex Tape:

Dear Gene Simmons:

Honestly, I don't even know what to say to you. I can't even look you in the eye. Go stand in the corner over there, facing the wall while I speak to you.

Gene...

I must say, I'm dissapointed.

Your sex-tape, from what I've seen of it NSFW NSFW (here) NSFW NSFW is bland, and passionless; busineslike, even.

I mean, you were the lead singer of fucking KISS. Your numbers are probably up there with Wilt Chamberlain.

I expected crazy, dirty, monkey sex.

But no.

Shirt on. The chick avoids kissing you... and you just pump away like you're thinking about getting your oil changed and ordering new checks.

For someone who could really put on a show...

Ya didn't.

Paris Hilton's Sex Tape? Now THAT'S a sextape. Colin Farrell's sex tape... there's too much talking... but still... a better tape. Pam and Tommy Lee? Not fantastic, but still... markedly better than yours. Even Fred Durst's pot-belly bone-fest was better than your lukewarm intercourse.

I'm not even going to address the ironic choice of music... wait. Yes, I will. Gene, I wanted to know what love was. I wanted you to show me. I wanted to feel what love was. After seeing your performance, I don't think you can show me.

Watching you have sex made me want a pastrami sandwich on rye with mustard, with a pickle. Not because I'm trying to draw any double entendre with pastrami, pickles, mustard, or anything else that goes into a good pastrami sandwich (seeded rye), rather, because... I'm hungry and I was thinking about other things than your ham-balled humping and that bedroom. I mean... ugh. How... Plebian. If I'm thinking about a sandwich and a delicious, garlicky, half-sour pickle, fermented to the point of fizziness while I watch you "make babies" with an energy drink spokesmodel, you've lost your game.

How did it end? Did you cum? Or was it just time for Matlock with a Jake and the Fat Man chaser with a shot of prune juice, so you abandoned your project mid-thrust to set up by the TV...

If that's what happens when you turn 60... kill me before I get that old, stabbing passionlessly at some big-jugged chick. There won't be any big-jugged chick in my equation (probably - I mean it all depends on how wasted I get...) but still. Once the sex hits "going through the motions," it's usually best to just dump the motherfucker. If sex is always just "going through the motions," I mean, game over, buddy.

Love,

Me.