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worstbillyjoel · 10 years

Text

Billy Joel is a Kleptomaniac

Baby Grand (feat. Ray Charles) by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

Agent Blake checked his Timex for the umpteenth time, failing in his promise to himself to not check again for at least 10 minutes, and then used the two-day-old stubble growing on his chin to scratch the back of his hand. Blake sighed loudly, perhaps in a manner that could maybe even be called purposefully dramatic and let his head loll off to one side. His eyes cast a bored gaze across the van to the man sitting in the driver’s seat.

Agent Ruiz, equally grizzled, but no less engaged in the situation, didn't even bother to lower the binoculars from his eyes.

“I'm not going to talk to you if your going to be whiny.” Ruiz said flatly from behind the 'nocs.

Agent Blake sat motionless, still gazing across the empty space between them as if Ruiz hadn't said anything at all. Or, more accurately, as if the words were traveling through some sort of thick medium. Like the car was full of dark molasses and the words were moving slowly through it. Because after a sufficiently still and uneventful silence, Blake suddenly flailed his limbs around the car violently; hitting the window, the dashboard, and eventually Agent Ruiz. Only this sudden assault could persuade Ruiz to lower the binoculars in frustration.

“Hey! Stop! Knock it off!”

“Why are we still doing this?!”

“Because, Agent Blake, no one is above the law! No one! And we're going to prove that.”

Agent Blake closed his eyes tightly and pushed on either side of his head with two fingers, compelling it not to explode. So instead he just continued yelling.

“BILLY JOEL IS NOT GOING TO ROB THIS PIANO STORE.”

Parked in a Wendy's Parking lot, in the middle of the night, across from a strip mall in the middle of Dallas, TX sat Agent Ruiz and Agent Blake. The FBI's “best,” and part of the domestic terror division.

Blake stared at Ruiz, and Ruiz stared at Blake, and nobody said anything for a while.

Ruiz cleared his throat, turned back to the windshield and raised a small voice recorder to his mouth.

“Agent Ruiz, operation Piano Man log hour-”

Blake cut him off blandly.

“Uninspired operation name.”

Ruiz lifted his finger from the record button, and now it was his turn to look angrily at Blake.

“Do you want it done properly, or not?”

Blake folded his arms across his chest with a defeated pomp.

Ruiz lifted the device to record again to continue, but Blake piped up once again.

“If he's as bad as you say he is, why are we even going after him for theft? Shouldn't we maybe nail him with something a little more substantial?”

“Al Capone was locked up for being in contempt of court. You have to start somewhere with these people.”

“These people?”

“Criminals.”

“Billy Joel, one of America's greatest living singer songwriters?”

“We're not going to have this conversation again.”

“23 time Grammy Award Nominee. 6 time winner Billy Joel?”

“I'm not going to do this.”

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure we're talking about 33 top 40 songs over three decades Billy Joel.”

“You know what-!”

But before Ruiz could finish his sentence, the sound of shattering glass came echoing from across the street. Both of the Agents whipped their heads around and squinted their eyes across the street. Agent Blake didn't even want to ask the question.

“...What was that?”

Ruiz turned excitedly towards Blake and flashed his winningest smile.

“Look alive, agent.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside the Piano Depot, Billy Joel was folding up a newspaper and tucking it beneath his arm as he fasted a pair of tight blue denim jeans around his waist after having defecated inside the open lid of a Pearl River floor model. He turned to face the piano. Billy Joel inhaled sharply and deeply though his nose, gathering as much phlegm and mucus as he could in the back of his throat before finishing off his handiwork by launching the loogie at the foot of the desecrated piano.

Proud of himself, Billy Joel stood back and propped his fists on his hips and scanned the rest of the store.

Off on the far end, away from the front door and areas where there would be heavy foot traffic during the day, tucked quietly behind a velvet rope was a gorgeous white Steinway. He clapped his hands giddily and he galloped over to the baby grand.

He ran his finger along the edge of the piano, almost quivering with pleasure at the touch. Wheh his finger reached the fall board that was closed over top of the keys he hesitated for just a moment to savor the atmosphere. Lifting it oh-so-gently, the fall board let out just the quietest, almost imperceptible squeak.

“Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhh” Billy Joel implored the piano lovingly.

Moving around to the front of the piano, Billy Joel held up a single finger and took aim at middle C. As his finger got closer and closer, Billy Joel felt a wave of warmth wash over his body. He closed his eyes in ecstasy just as his finger was preparing to come in for a soft landing on the note when he heard quiet scuffling behind him. He whipped around. Two men in badly wrinkled, coffee stained suits stood in the middle of the store floor.

“I fucking knew it! I told you! I told you!” Ruiz squealed. He drew his gun and aimed it quickly at center mass. “Get on the fucking ground, Billy Joel! You're coming with us!”

Agent Blake, looking confused more than anything stood there shaking his head in disbelief until a swift punch from Ruiz prompted him to draw his weapon lackadaisically from his holster and followed Ruiz's lead, pointing it a the chart topper.

“Um, put your heads up and get to the ground, I guess, Mr. Joel. This is insane. Why wouldn't you just buy your pianos? Don't you, like, get these for free?”

Billy Joel spoke in a raspy, fervid whisper.

“My baby grand is coming home with me...”

“Not This one. Not tonight. And not for a long time if I have anything to do with it, you monster.” said Ruiz, with a sense of vindication, puffing his chest out and thumbing his nose cockily as he made a slow move towards Billy Joel.

The two agents, each lost in their own set of wildly pumping emotions, triumph for Ruiz and bewilderment for Blake, watched as Billy Joel slowly put his hands in the air and got on to his knees, but seemed to miss the fact that Billy Joel's face was contorting in anger as they approached. By the time Ruiz had holstered his gun and moved around the singer, handcuffs at the ready, Billy Joel's face was a mask of inhuman rage. Almost seeming to distort space around it, contorting and bending in dark and impossible ways.

By the time Blake was able to snap out of his puzzlement for long enough to gauge the terror emanating from the famed singer, he had hardly enough time to scream a warning.

“RUIZ-”

Just as agent Ruiz was about to clamp the cuffs down on to the wrists of the perp, Billy Joel snapped his fingers with a swift click, and no sooner did Ruiz turn to look behind him had the brilliant Steinway jump to life and crash in to him, hitting the FBI Agent square in the chest.

The blow from the 400 pound instrument floored Ruiz was a thud, and he let out a howl of pain.

“What the hell happened?! I think my ribs are broken!” he bellowed, clutching his sides in agony. “Blake?!”

Ruiz lifted his head to scan for his partner. Instead what he was was a suddenly shirtless Billy Joel, riding atop a living piano as it loped towards him in a stiff but quickening stride.

Agent Ruiz kicked his feet against the carpet, trying to put some kind of distance between himself and the unbelievable nightmare tumbling towards him. But he didn't.

In a blink, the piano was on top of him once again. Ruiz opened his mouth to yell, but he couldn't find the function.

The piano opened in the front, revealing a gaping maw lined with gnashing piano keys. With a deadening creak, the piano lunged forward, clamping down on the agent's legs like a bear trap, crushing them instantly.

At this, Agent Ruiz found his voice. It came back to him in the form of a blood chilling scream that masked the deadening crunch of his own shins shattering in the mouth of the monster.

“ARGHHHHHHHUGHHHHHH!”

“Help me! Help me Blake. Fucking help me, oh my god! BLAKE!”

The Steinway muffled the yells as it drew the remainder of the Agent in to it's horrible mouth with a series of quick chomps. The screaming stopped as the great white bit down across the agents chest, crushing his lungs. Then, tossing what would presumably be the head if pianos where animals back with a flourish, the piano engulfed what remained of Agent Ruiz.

“Shhhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...” whispered Billy Joel, calmly stroking the beast. The piano let out a disturbing humming noise as the dozens of felt hammers danced and vibrated lightly over the strings, and produced an unnatural, purring chord. The once flawless and glossy white finish was now smeared with a dark crimson that would make Jackson Pollock shit himself.

Agent Blake shat himself for different reasons. Mostly just the one reason, though. That being unadulterated horror.

Billy Joel, still perched atop the lid urged the beast forward, until it cast a looming shadow over the incapacitated agent laying prone on the carpet. Billy Joel ran his finger once again along the edge of the keys.

“W- ...wha.” Agent Blake swallowed hard. “What are you going to do, Billy Joel?”

Billy Joel looked down at the man coldly, holding his gaze.

And then, without a word, Billy Joel looked away.

The piano sauntered right over top of Agent Blake towards the broken window at the front of the store where he had not along ago made his entrance, Billy Joel still teasing the keys quietly. Blake's eyes followed the pair as the marched away. He could feel the hot acidic taste of vomit rise in the throat and tears began to stream from his eyes.

At the opening of the store, his back to the Agent, Billy Joel looked down at his own hand and noticed the his right index finger had found middle C, and was resting there peacefully. With a smile, Billy Joel compressed the key, sending a sweet, single note reverberating through the eerily quiet store.

The note went one and on. And on and on and on. Echoing forever in Agent Blake's head. Bouncing back and forth from one side of his skull to the other, getting always louder, always heavier, always bigger, until the tears from his eyes no longer ran clear, but red, and the Agent's head lolled off to one side, and stayed there.

#Billy Joel #billy joel lyrics #baby grand #billy joel song mean #worst billy joel #worst #true story

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

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Don't Hitch a Ride From Billy Joel

Gerald shut his eyes as the wind whipped up again. The frosty night air nipped at his quickly numbing ears and nose. He hoisted his balled fists up even further in to his armpits, getting them as close to warmth as possible.

The rubber soles of his old tennis shoe had grown noticeably thin over the past few days of walking, and he was starting to feel the pits and gravelly debris along the asphalt that lined southbound interstate 15.

With every step, he was closer to Los Angles, his dream. And, just as importantly, that much further from Casper, Wyoming.

As the last of the gust blew by him, Gerald’s eyelids peeled open once again with a sniffle and a sign that instantly transformed in to a could of moisture in front of his face, and made him long for a cigarette. It’s not that he smoked, but the idea of being in close proximity to a warm ember and a long, hot drag to fill his lungs with ash, like a little toxic space heater, made him wistful.

His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a light on the horizon. Gerald stared at it, intensely trying to determine its origin. Had those been there before? A street light? A house? After about 15 seconds of silent scrutiny, the light’s small bobbing and increasing size lead him to determine it was, in fact a car.

Earlier in his odyssey, Gerald would’ve been heartened by the thought of a ride, but after being passed by nearly every car from here to Wyoming, the most he could manage to muster up was a lolling hitchhiker’s thumb as he leaned against the guardrail, and even that he did reluctantly, as it required his hand leaving its tiny armpit cocoon of warmth.

As the car neared, the lights disappeared behind a dip in the road, and all Gerald could hear was its engine approaching: a deep, rumbling muscle-bound sound barreling toward him.

As the engine was reaching it crescendo, the car reappeared over the ridge in front of him, and Gerald had to shield his eyes, now acutely adjusted to the darkness he had been traversing for the past few hours, as the light from the headlights was a blinding orange explosion.

Blinking in rapid succession to clear his vision and removing one hand from his face just enough to block the light, Gerald came to find a deeply black 1970 Boss 429 Ford Mustang. It was almost like the car had been painted with a black hole. No light could near the car’s inky surface without being swallowed alive. Gerald search for his reflection in the side panel, but couldn’t find it.

Gerald shifted on his worn out rubber soles, crunching the gravel beneath them as the side window rolled down slowly, revealing just a single hand, wrapped in a fingerless black leather driving glove and draped casually over the passenger seat, as if it was putting the moves on a currently nonexistent lucky lady.

Gerald watched as the hand turned over and the middle and index fingers flexed inward, beckoning Gerald silently to get in the car.

Pulling on the chrome handle, the door swung open without so much as a click and Gerald lowered himself in to the vehicle, sinking in to its bucket seat, happy to be out of the cold, and for the opportunity to get the feeling back in his extremities.

Pulling the door shut behind him, the Mustang’s pistons fired up again like a far away bass drum, and it rolled onward.

Gerald soaked in the heat pouring from the car’s vents, thawing out his face and hands. A few minutes passed before he even realized the driver hadn’t asked him his destination.

“Oh, I’m headed to California, by the way. Los Angeles, actually.”

Distracted by the cold and his weary feet, this was the first time Gerald had actually turned to see who had stopped for him. Gerald saw a man. His face was mostly hidden in the shadows of the car’s headliner, with the streetlights still too few and far between for Gerald to make out any features, other then a peculiar pair of darkly tinted sunglasses – an odd choice for a driver alone on the highway in the middle of the night.

His shoulders were cloaked in a black leather jacket that almost looked like it was made of liquid mercury as it moved and flowed along with the driver’s arm, which guiding the car through some lazy curves in the dark road.

His lower half was clad in a pair of well worn, albeit still snug fitting, blue jeans, capped on the end by a pair of vintage engineer boots.

“Ha, what are you in to rockabilly or something?” Gerald asked, trying to start up a light conversation after getting a look at the guy.

“Naw, it’s cool. I’m actually a musician, too. Or, uh, I guess I want to be. LA and everything, you probably guessed. Heh.”

Gerald sniffled in the silence, feeling a little awkward and not wanting to annoy one of the only people to have given him a ride.

“Well, anyway, thanks for picking me-“

“I have charted a course for the vineyard.” The man spoke, coolly, his voice matching the deep resonance of his Mustang.

Gerald pondered his announcement. Wine country, huh? That’s good news. This guy could probably just drop him off outside the city on his way upstate. Finally, a real warmth began to grow inside Gerald’s chest and began to overwhelm him. Joyful, triumphant tears welled up in his eyes. He was going to make it. Finally.

The driver spoke again, this time his voice somehow deeper, interrupting Gerald’s inner moment of exhausted elation.

“But tonight… I am Nantucket bound.”

Nantucket? Wasn’t that in Massachusetts?

“Wait, like… the Massachusetts Nantucket? Or…?”

Gerald felt the car begin to speed up. Its distinctive low grumbling slowly began to rise as the engine whirred to life at the behest of the booted-foot of the driver, pressing the acceleration.

The instruments in the dash, until now a dim glow, lit up. The light grew and grew until a fiery red hue lit up the cabin of the car.

A dull mixture of confusion and fear commenced spilling forth from where that warm feeling once occupied Gerald’s chest. Gerald looked over at the driver.

It did nothing to ease his confusion when he turned to see none other than the mother fucker, Billy Joel, white knuckles standing out against his black gloves as his grip tightened on the wheel, and his glasses couldn’t mask the growing expression of ecstasy spreading across the world renowned sing songwriter’s face.

The car’s engine had transitioned from easy baritone to a soprano who was having bamboo shoots inserted under their fingernails; pleading with Billy Joel to let off the gas.

Gerald’s terror only let him ask the one question he already knew the answer to.

“Are you fucking Billy Joel, dude?!”

No sooner had the question left Gerald’s lips than did multi-Grammy award winner simply pop out of existence, leaving Gerald alone in the tortured car, hurtling down the highway.

The lights for the dashboard grew blinding, hot and crimson, transforming the car itself in to some sort of casket on its descent in to hell.

Sweat sizzled on Gerald’s skin, single strands of his hair began to combust and burn like the tiny little fuse connected to an illegal firecracker.

Gerald’s eyes were stuck, open wide in abject horror, unable to blink or close themselves against the inferno.

With nothing else to do, he lunged across the center consol of the demon Mustang and threw his hands toward the steering wheel. Upon contact, his flesh practically melted to the leather, locking him in position.

Helpless, Gerald yelled out in agony, throwing his weight away from the wheel, trying to recoil his arms.

“What? WHAT? WHAT THE FU–“

If a tree falls in a forest, and no one’s around to hear, does it make a sound?

If a man had been standing on the side of Interstate 15 when that Boss 429 Ford Mustang tore through the metal guardrail and disappeared into the darkness below, he wouldn’t have heard much. A split second of twisted metal before an engine was put out of its misery. And then quiet again. Darkness again.

…

Meanwhile…

The shocked applause of the handful of diners at a small home-style café in Nantucket Massachusetts quickly turned in to horror as Billy Joel suddenly appeared, as if by magic, and then wasted no time grabbing a bottle of red wine from a nearby patron’s table and smashing it across his face, sending the man screaming to the ground, clutching the bloody mess that moment before had been his eyes.

Billy Joel took the ensuring panic as an opportunity to fall to his knees alongside the man, sucking up the mixture of blood and 1997 Quilceda Creek Cabernet Sauvignon from the quaint cobblestone street.

Downeaster Alexa by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

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Goodbye, Phil Ramone.

Sulking down the palatial hallway of Joel Manor, Thomas Prendergast thumbed the bit of plastic in his hand. It was a regular drinking straw. Nothing very ominous about it, really, except that it had been cut in half. And he had drawn it, this short straw. And now he was walking down this dark-ass fucking hallway.

Thomas looked up from his feet as he closed in on the doorway at the end of the corridor.

Thomas pushed steadily against the huge wooden door; oaken and covered in ornate carvings depicting the many personal triumphs in Billy Joel’s career. If Thomas had looked, squinted maybe, up towards the upper left hand corner of the towering threshold, cloaked in shadow, he might have seen Phil’s eyes carved there, looking back.

Thomas budged the door open just enough to see Billy Joel slouched at the bench in front of his immaculately black grand piano, illuminated by only a handful of candles scattered across its lid, wax continually creeping across its surface like a sort of glacial mass coming down from the mountains. Thomas cleared his throat lightly, but the American music sensation didn’t flinch.

“Uh, Mr.… Mr. Joel. I don’t know if, uh, if anyone’s told you yet, but, um, Phil Ramone. He passed away. Earlier tonight.”

Thomas braced himself, ready for Billy Joel to descend upon him. His squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists, but no fury ever came.

When he could finally find the courage to re-open his eyes, he saw that Billy Joel remained sitting at the piano, unmoving. Appearing almost frozen in time if not for the metronomic rising and falling of his shoulders as he breathed.

Thomas looked shiftily around the room. This had gone stupidly well, all things considered, he thought. Satisfied, he began to slowly back out of the room, through that huge wooden door.

“We all just… thought you would want to know, so…” Thomas was almost out of the room now. All he had to do was click the door closed.

“So… goodnight, Mr. J-“

An perfect, echoing whistle bounced around the room. It was beautiful. It seemed to harmonize with itself as it refracted across the floor and walls. Thomas had never heard anything so entrancing.

Billy Joel kept whistling the beginning of “Strangers.” Thomas kept listening, his eyes watering with tears and his mouth hanging agape.

Soon, Thomas’ eyes stopped weeping. They stopped seeing. They stopped everything. The back of his throat began to glow a hazy white, as if he had eaten the low-hanging morning fog after a night of heavy drinking, and was choosing this moment to vomit it back up.

It wasn’t the morning fog. It was his soul. But, in all honestly, a person’s soul is a lot like ephemeral, hazy vomit if you think about it.

The haze exited Thomas body, leaving it to slide slowly down the door, on to the deep burgundy carpet. It drifted weightlessly across the room, arriving eventually in the waiting palm of Billy Joel at his piano just as the whistling stopped.

He examined the spirit closely. It wasn’t anything spectacular. Nothing compared to Phil’s. But, then, not many were.

Billy Joel looked down and, lying across his lap, was the lifeless body of Phil Ramone.

Billy Joel lowered the wisp down to the body’s lips. Carefully, he maneuvered the glowing puff of soul into the mouth. He pressed both hands against the face of the corpse, willing it towards the heart, that it might start once again, but alas, the soul slithered back up through his fingers and disappeared in a poof.

Billy Joel hugged his old friend as a tear of bubbling black tar rolled down his cheek.

The Stranger by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

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Billy Joel Has One Love

By all accounts, it was a beautiful morning. The sun had just escaped the eastern horizon and its photons made the familiar eight-minute journey, all 93 million miles and change, darting through the vacuum of space, zipping past Mercury and Venus, dodging around the moon and ducking beneath the atmosphere to finally flicker through a set of blinds in a window in a house in Peoria, Illinois.

Of the infinitesimally small amount of light that made the journey and safely into the Oglesby household, an even small amount still was reflecting off of the obsidian black lenses of Billy Joel’s sunglasses, refracting on to the table, and slowly burning a hole in a copy of Good Housekeeping.

Arriving in the family room along with the sun was Chester Oglesby, a 2nd grader at Limestone Walters Elementary School. He was awake before 7, indifferent to the option of sleeping in on a Saturday. He just wanted to be sure he could get his cereal ready before the cartoons come on.

It was what he did every Saturday: quietly move out to the small family room, nestled in the center of what his mom called a “cozy” floor plan. He did his best to make his breakfast soundlessly, so as not to wake her up. She worked very hard all by herself, and so she liked sleeping in when she could, which wasn’t often between her two jobs. Chester would sometimes ask her if she wanted to watch cartoons with him, but her response, more often then not, was a warm smile, some fingers through his hair, and a genuine “maybe next time, kiddo. I need to get my sleep,” followed up with a kiss on the forehead. And so Chester let her sleep.

This morning, like many Saturday mornings prior, Chester carried his bowl to his spot in front of the TV set where he could listen without turning the volume up too loudly. He shuffled along the beige carpet that covered nearly the entire house in his footie PJs, a spoon sticking out thoughtfully from beneath a stiff upper lip. It was almost pipe-like and gave him the dignified appearance of a very tiny Sherlock Holmes. All the while he kept his eyes on his precariously full bowl of Fruity Pebbles, careful not to spill.

As he came around the couch, Chester noticed a small tendril of smoke rising from the coffee table, as if someone had just extinguished a candle. When his eyes followed the offending sunbeam to its source, he was startled to see a man, passed out, fully clothed, lying across the length of the couch.

Chester gasped and jumped back, the spoon falling from his mouth to the carpet with a small thud. The quick movement had caused a wave of milk to rush over the lip of the bowl and on to Chester’s hands. He moved quickly to settle the bowl in his grasp and avoid further spillage before he set it down on the table.

Billy Joel awoke with a start at the sound of ceramic on wood, sitting up like when a cartoon character would step on the end of a rake, Chester thought. He looked at the man sitting in front of him. Chester couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, and actually, could see nothing other than his own reflection looking back at him. Despite that, Chester knew this man. He had seen him before. He may not have recognized him if not for the fact that he was wearing the exact same thing he was when Chester first met him: clunky leather boots, tight blue jeans, and a greasy leather jacket.

“Dad?” Chester said.

Billy Joel beamed widely. “Chester!” he said, stretching his arms as far out as they would reach, as if searching to bestow a great big bear hug on a son he hadn’t seen in years, but as Chester approached him with the appropriate arms-out posture, Billy Joel just lowered them again, making Chester feel a bit silly and confused, but Billy Joel just kept smiling.

“I’m glad you’re awake, my boy. Hurry and go get dressed! I came to pick you up!”

Chester dropped his arms to his side again. “For what?”

Billy Joel was practically jovial. “For our fishing trip of course! Now hurry, go and get dressed! The fish are a-biting!”

Chester was still a little confused, but he couldn’t help but smile. His dad was here. Finally. His dad was home.

“Um, ok! Ok, dad, I’ll be right back!”

“Go quick!” Billy Joel laughed, mussing the boy’s hair as he turned and ran back to his room.

As Chester disappeared in to his room, Billy Joel sighed darkly, the smile melting away quicker than an ice cube in a piping hot glass of liquid hell-fire. He arose from the couch and straightened the ends of his coat. He plucked the spoon from the floor and wiped off the residual carpet fuzz and child spittle that stuck to it on his pant leg before shoveling the contents of Chester’s bowl in to his gaping mouth.

Satisfied, Billy Joel examined the room for the exit, and headed towards it promptly.

But he didn’t quite make it out the door before Chester re-appeared with that smile that seemed to be permanently attached.

“I’m back dad!” He kicked his feet in to the air. “I even put on my boots that mom bought! Are you ready?”

Billy Joel stared at the youth who was practically sparkling in the sun he was so excited. Billy Joel just shrugged.

“Ready for what now?”

The feeling of the mis-read hug returned to Chester. He felt as though he couldn’t quite pick up on something. He began to feel self-conscious.

“Um… the fishing. For fish.” He said quietly, his eyes lowering to the ground.

“Oh. No. No, we’re not going to do that.”

“You don’t have time today?” Chester offered, weakly.

Billy Joel scoffed. But then he saw the boy was serious.

“Oh! Oh, no, not like that. I’m just gonna... go. I’m just gonna leave now… 'kay?”

Billy Joel let the empty cereal bowl slip from his hand as he turned for the exit. It fell, shattering to pieces against the small section of tile inside the front door.

Billy Joel’s hand had just grasped the knob, ready to turn, when the Chester spoke up. Almost unable to force the words out from his tightening up throat, but in between sniffles, Chester managed to peep out,

“Why, dad?” The sniffles crumbling away to heavier sobs, “Why don’t you care? About me?” Tears flowed freely down his plump rosy cheeks.

Billy Joel turned to face him, his teeth gritted in petty annoyance, irked by the inconvenience of having to explain himself.

His left hand reached up, grabbing a hold of his sunglasses.

Chester, through the tears obscuring his vision, could almost maybe have seen the eyes behind those glasses, but just as Billy Joel removed the first pair with his left hand, his right hand replaced them with an even blacker, lonelier pair.

Through his teeth, Billy Joel hissed, “rock and roll music is the only thing I ever gave a damn about…”

At this Chester’s tears began plopping one by one on to the carpet. Evelyn Oglesby emerged from her room, wrapped in her robe, and upon seeing her tearful child, rushed to a knee at his side.

“Chester, what was that crash? Are you ok?!”

Evelyn looked up to see the leather-jacket figure in the doorway. She addressed it with a mixture of shock and anger.

“Billy Joel?! What the F-?!”

Before she could lose her religion, Billy Joel’s hand darted deep into a pocket on his jacket and emerged just as quickly holding a small, white capsule. In one motion, he raised it above his head, and then snapped it to the ground. The pill erupted in to a flume of white smoke that nearly engulfed the living area.

Evelyn acted quickly to cover the eyes and mouth of her lamenting son. She coughed again and again, unable to avoid inhaling some of the acrid smoke as it hung around inside the house.

The sound of the front door opening signaled a relieving gust a wind that gratefully swept the bulk of the cloud out with it.

To her shock, just as the cloud dissipated enough to see, Billy Joel remained, back turned to the small family huddle on the carpet. He was wrestling with a bronze fleur de lis sconce hanging by the open door.

Evelyn and Chester watched in disbelief at the selfishness of one person as Billy Joel was finally able to free the decorative wall hanging from its anchors and shove it underneath his jacket. Without another word, Billy Joel went sprinting out the door and across the cul-de-sac, boots clomping against the pavement as he ran.

The Night is Still Young by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

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Billy Joel Comes Face to Face With the Law

Police Chief Ervin Cohen pushed away from the brushed steel table sitting in the middle of what was otherwise an empty room. He was a squarely built man, and his 25 years of dedication to the force showed on his face. He couldn’t be more than a year or two from being stereotypically “too old for this shit.” Beside him, Doyle Hughes, just a rookie, flipped close a small pad of yellow legal paper that had been filled front to back with notes. The young officer wiped away a glistening layer of perspiration that had formed under his carrot-colored crew cut. He hand shook as he clicked his pen shut.

Across from them, a completely nude Billy Joel sat emotionless; staring in to what he knew was a two-way mirror on the opposite wall of the interrogation room.

At 7 am that morning, Chief Cohen had arrived to find the celebrated American singer/songwriter, fresh off a successful US tour, sitting crossed legged on the porch of the police station, insisting that he was turning himself in.

Upon being processed and the after the confiscation of his jeans, leather jacket, and sunglasses, Billy Joel had refused to don the prison-orange jumpsuit provided him… or anything other than his normal attire. So nude it was.

And nude he had been for the entirety of the marathon 13-hour interrogation. During his tenure on the force, Cohen had never seen anyone behave so coldly and unattached while confessing to a crime, never mind that these confessions were some of the most mindlessly heinous things the Chief had ever heard. They had to take an intermission around the five hour mark when officer Hughes threw up his Subway Italian meatball sub during a particularly graphic retelling of Billy Joel’s trip to New Guinea while high on DMT, and his subsequent bout of minor genocide of a previously uncontacted tribe when he dressed up like a conquistador and convinced the locals he was a god before demanding a pile of human hearts for his daily brunch. Which he received. And enjoyed so much he took the rest of the tribe’s organs with him upon his departure, only to be stopped by Costa Rican customs officers with whom he then traded the bag of hearts with for a set of pristine ivory elephant tusks.

That confession was followed by even worse, but Hughes’ empty stomach could only dry heave mercifully for the remainder of the interrogation.

“Is that it, Mr. Joel? Is there…” Chief Cohen signed, exasperated. “Is there anything else?”

Billy Joel jangled his handcuffs that were securely fashioned beneath the table (or rather, sets of handcuffs as they had kept adding more and more to his wrists as he confessed to increasingly violent and unforgivable crimes) and tilted his head thoughtfully from side to side as if he was trying to rattle free any remaining atrocities from his brain. But, alas, he shrugged contently, unable to come up with anything.

The chief huffed, “right, well then. I suggest you find a lawyer. You’re going away for a long time, and I don’t think they have any pianos in prison… piano man!”

The chief chuckled at his own joke. He had been watching, like, so many episodes of CSI: Miami, waiting for the chance to drop a one liner. Nailed it.

“We’re done here!” he called out to no one in particular. The electronic click of the interrogation room door opening once more indicated that his message had been received.

Officer Hughes rose slowly from his chair, testing his wobbly knees before trusting them to carry him from the room. Cohen made for the exit.

He reached out to the handle before Billy Joel bothered to speak up.

“Mmmmm…” Billy Joel mulled.

The pair stopped. They turned to look at the singer, who still wore the same nonplussed expression that had been on his face the entire day.

“My silence is my self defense.” Said Billy Joel, rather simply, with a hint of pride in his voice at having defeated the system, once again!

Hughes and Cohen exchanged incredulous glances. The rookie couldn’t help but laugh nervously at Billy Joel’s notion. The police chief, meanwhile, a little heartbroken that his one-liner didn’t stand as the last words spoken before he could leave the room like a badass, crossed his arms across his chest in as gruff a way as he could muster, puffing out his chest and pushing his hairy forearms out gallantly.

“Mr. Joel, I-“ he chuckled, bemused. “You can’t call on the fifth amendment after you’ve already confessed. You came in here on your own free will and spilled the beans… as it were.”

Billy Joel nodded solemnly, taking Chief Cohen’s words to heart. Except, no, he fucking didn’t, because before rookie Hughes’ piss could even hit the floor, Billy Joel had fucking thrown his hands apart, shattering the half-dozen pairs of handcuffs like they were so many celery stalks.

His nude flesh cut through the air like spicy Chinese food through a duck’s digestive tract that one time he had fed spicy Chinese food to a duck. Or maybe more like a katana later cut through that same duck after it pooped on his engineer boots.

In one graceful arc, Billy Joel was out of his seat, across the room, palming the Chief’s face in one stony hand and slamming it against the two-way mirror with a sickening crunch as the glass splintered under the blow. The screams of horror coming from the other side were the only indication that life extended outward beyond the four cement walls.

Billy Joel spun with frightening agility and leapt to the center of the room. He pounded his chest like the goddamned King Kong or something, and with one great thrust, Billy Joel’s suddenly stiff member snapped out like a fucking cobra and rammed against the bottom of the steel table. The sound exploded and echoed across the cinderblock walls as if someone had just hurled a piece of granite against the cold steel of the table. The table flipped through the air again and again before crashing against the wall right behind Doyle Hughes.

The rookie watched as Billy Joel leapt in to the air and straight Hulk-smashed the floor right where the table had sat moments ago. Plunging one fist straight through the tile floor, then the concrete foundation of the jailhouse, and down in to Mother Earth herself, the singer yanked his arm from the hole, impossibly gripping what appeared to be an old dirty shoe box that could only have been placed there prior to the construction of the building in 1955.

Removing the contents from the box, Billy Joel clothed himself with the tight denim jeans, black leather jacket, cotton t-shirt, and opaque sunglasses contained therein.

Billy Joel walked slowly towards Officer Hughes, who was lying, incapacitated by fear, against the wall by the door. With each approaching step, the rookie policeman’s trembling grew worse and worse, until he looked like he was in the throes of a full blow seizure. His hair, originally a bright orange and instant giveaway to his Irish roots, faded to the dusty gray of a man four times his age.

Billy Joel placed his hand above the sputtering cop’s heart, already beating nearly out of his chest, and sighed, as if to reminisce about better times.

Billy Joel smiled at the young man from behind his glasses. He reached up and re-locked the door just as panicked fists pounded against the other side. Wavering voices yelled out from beyond their four walls.

“Let him go, Billy Joel! He’s just a boy!”

Below Billy Joel’s reassuring hand, Hughes could feel an immense pressure building up against his chest until it felt as if his ribs would relent to the unstoppable force and crack open like an acorn beneath a car tire.

“Oh…” Billy Joel mused. “I’d give back all of my elephant tusks if I could only have my sack of hearts back. Fucking Costa Ricans…”

And So It Goes by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

#Billy Joel #worst #Worst Billy Joel #WBJ #celebrity news #WTF #true story #billy joel lyrics #And So It Goes #billy joel songs #song meaning

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

Text

Billy Joel is Not a Good Hiking Partner

The wind whipped at Jeremy’s face. It bit painfully at the bits of skin that were exposed to the chill. A shiver ran up his arm, emanating from a small gap of exposed flesh showing between the end of his sleeve and the start of his glove. The Peak of Nanga Parbat, and for that matter, the entire landscape, is a sight to behold, and Jeremy had seen quite a bit of it during his trek, but now he wasn’t focused on the craggy ridges of the mountain that splintered across the face of the escarpment, or the breath-taking vistas that stretched the entire length of the horizon, or even his goal of reaching the peak of the mountain. No. Right now, he was lying in the snow, reaching dangerously far over the ledge, staring just past that spot of exposed skin into the eyes of Joanna, his fiancé.

Too quickly, this pre-wedding trip to the Kashmir region of India to climb this mountain had turned dire. It can only be bad luck that an ice shelf, hidden beneath a fresh snow bank, would rob a climber as seasoned as Joanna of her footing. And only 57 meters from the peak…

“Climb to me!” shouted Jeremy, his voice almost swept away in the wind.

Joanna’s already perfidious footing got worse as her boot broke away from the face of the cliff. Jeremy lurched sickeningly closer to the precipice. He could feel his navel inch ever closer to the tipping point. As the body’s center of gravity, the distance between his well formed innie and the edge of the so-named “killer mountain” was a matter of life and death.

Joanna kicked furiously at the rocks, only to have more and ore of them crumble away from beneath her feet, down into the snow-covered abyss. Her eyes, full of terror, risked a brief glance down.

“No!” Jeremy called. “Look at me! Look at me! Climb!”

Joanna’s breaths came in raspy gulps, the thin air draining the strength from her legs and her grip. They could both feel the other literally slipping away, but neither seemed to accept it. Joanna searched her brain for the words, but none came.

“Jeremy… Jeremy!”

“Joanna! Climb to me, my love! Don’t look-“

Jeremy stopped suddenly. Was it the adrenaline, or did he actually hear that familiar sound? Through the wind and the snow and the sound of his own heart's echoing thuds in his ears, he heard the sound of boots crunching along through the snow.

He threw his head back, looking over his left shoulder – then his right. Approaching, in the distancing, marching dutifully through knee-high snow was a man wearing nothing but blue jeans, black sunglasses, and a leather jacket that wasn’t even zipped up all the way, but rather, the zipper remained at about the halfway point, revealing a plain black t-shirt underneath. Billy Joel had his hands stuck lazily in the pockets of his jacket as he came nearer and nearer.

Jeremy couldn't believe it. What providence! A God-send! He yelled. He yelled for their lives.

“Help! Please, help!”

Billy Joel, as if he had just seen the couple in spite of their neon-orange hiking jackets, waved cordially: the way someone would wave at a neighbor they didn’t hate but didn’t necessarily care for if they both happened to be getting their papers at the same time. Or the kind of wave one might feel obliged to give to a fellow motorist for letting them merge over during heavy traffic. He continued towards them at a steady pace, in no real rush it seemed.

“Hurry! Please! My fiancé- help me pull he up!”

Billy Joel waved again, this time with less of a smile; annoyed with Jeremy’s persistence. Fans. Always wanting something from you.

Jeremy turned back to Joanna.

“Just hold on! Help is here! Hold on!”

When he turned back around to see how much further Billy Joel had to go, he was confused when he saw that the Superstar singer/songwriter had pulled up short and stopped in his tracks. Instead of coming to their rescue, he seemed to be… building a snowman.

Billy Joel whistled one of his favorite ditties as he rolled some of the powder up in to the familiar snow-person segments – paying no heed to Jeremy’s calls, which grew more and more panicked.

Jeremy’s grip began to fail. Their fingers slipped from each other’s wrists to their hands; clutching at one another. Jeremy looked back again.

“Please!” he pleaded, tears beginning to well in his eyes, freezing just as quickly as they formed. “She’s…” he paused, not wanting to admit it. “She’s slipping! HELP!”

Jeremy watched as Billy Joel looked up and removed his glasses. Billy Joel stared right at Jeremy, and his gaze sent ice rippling through the young man’s veins; it was colder than any wind or night that he had endured on this mountain. Billy Joel spoke to him in a voice that was calm and collected, with a smoothing warm tone that somehow seemed to cut right through the wind.

“You’re a big boy now. You’ll never let her go.”

Jeremy looked back to Joanna. Her nose was red and runny; her rosy cheeks were more suited to a Christmas morning on the back porch, watching light snow flurries drift down cross the yard. But piercing terror sharpened her eyes.

“Jeremy. Jeremy, I love you! Jeremy!”

The words came fast, spilling out of her like a confession.

“No! Please, don’t let go! Don’t let go, Joanna!”

“My love-“

The rest of her voice was swallowed by her screams as she slipped from Jeremy’s grasp, leaving only her glove in his shaking fist.

A pure black misery bubbled in Jeremy’s gut as he watched her fall away from him.

“NOOOOOOOO! NOOO! JOANNA! NO!”

Jeremy slammed his fists in to the snow over and over, throwing the now-empty glove away from him.

“Oh, perfect!” said Billy Joel.

Jeremy remembered now. The son of a bitch. He whipped his head around to get a glimpse of the chart-topping pop star, but saw only a single snowman adorned in the classic fashion of charcoal buttons, button eyes and a pointy carrot nose. Two sticks jutted out from the middle section representing the figures arms. On the end of one of the sticks was Joanna’s glove.

Rage shattered Jeremy’s senses like a sledgehammer through a crystal dinner set that the couple had registered for on their wedding registry. He growled and shouted like a man possessed.

“Where are you!? Where are you now, you COWARD?! Show yourse-“

Jeremy was cut off by the imprint of a snowy boot on the seat of his pants. Billy Joel, whistling happily, began to extend his leg - ever so slowly unbending at the knee.

Jeremy did nothing but stare aghast out over the cold and beautiful landscape one more time as his navel got closer, and closer, and closer to the edge until, finally, he tipped over.

Tell Her About It by Billy Joel on Grooveshark

#Billy Joel #Tell Her About It #billy joel lyrics #song meaning #song lyrics #celebrity news #WTF #true story

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

Text

Billy Joel is the Best, and ONLY, Sing-Rapper in History

You know what? Sure, he only had one hit song, but Tommy Levine was happy. He and his band, Reunion, had just taken the stage in a local Fall Festival in Boise Idaho. Tommy looked out over the crowd of families: some sitting in the grass, clothed in various cardigans and light jackets on this crisp autumn evening. He stepped up to the microphone, greeted by polite applause.

"We're Reunion! We hope you're all having a great Fall Festival!"

More polite applause.

Tommy Levine savored a big whiff of clean Idaho air. The potato fields weren't far from here, and he could smell them ripening on the breeze. He weighed the decision of whether he would get a corn dog or a funnel cake after this. Heck, maybe both! It would only be right to treat himself on a perfect day like this.

The drummer held his stick in this air, grinning and tapping them together as he counted off the beat.

"A-one, two, three FOUR!"

The sound of the electric organ hummed across the small audience, and the older crowd swayed together with happy smiles on their faces. Tommy took a deep breath in preparation for the first verse of his top-10 Billboard hit, ready for his queue-

"B.B. Bumble and the Stingers, Mott the Hoople, Ray Ch-"

It was then that a leather-jacketed whirlwind shot through the crowd. In a matter of milliseconds, he had darted out of the corn maze and come barreling through the audience and leaping on to the stage in one seemingly unbroken movement.

Before anyone could stop him, Billy Joel had the entire microphone shoved down Tommy Levine's throat.

The rest of the music came to a cacophonous halt.

Billy Joel remained crouched by the downed singer, gently massaging his throat, easing the microphone further in to his digestive track while tears streamed down his face. Tommy stared wide-eyed as more and more of the chord disappeared inside of him while his body convulsed lightly in shock, defenseless.

The drummer shot up from his stool.

"Holy Fuck! Someone get a doctor!

A well dressed man with neatly combed hair and an argyle sweater vest, maybe in his mid 40s, pushed to the front of the flabbergasted and horrified audience.

"I'm a doctor!" he shouted.

Billy Joel, who had, until this point, been enraptured with a child-like enthusiasm with the singer's head he now had cradled on his knees, encouraging him to ingest ever more of the microphone, twisted violently to face the foolish volunteer. He ripped his sunglasses from his face to reveal two wild eyes. Eyes that didn't belong in a modern man, but in perhaps a Neanderthal just about to enter in to a life or death battle of survival with some sort of prehistoric saber-toothed cat.

A dark wet spot appeared on the front of the good doctor's slacks as he slunk cowardly back in to the crowd and disappeared.

Billy Joel turned his attention back to feeding this performer sound equipment.

The audience, watching in terror, audibly gasped as a whole as the hear a deadening "plunk" and "sizzle" as the microphone fell in to the singer's stomach. Over the frozen silence the PA system echoed the sound of Tommy's retching and the microphone slowly dissolving itself across the entire park.

"urughrugr-hyueckurgh-urhurghrgrhgryr-" well you can't really type it in letters, but it's safe to say that small crowd in Boise Idaho that day will never be able to get it out of their minds for as long as they live.

A wave of grief-stricken, contagious vomiting spread quickly across the huddled mass.

Billy Joel held Tommy's head firm in between his hands until the last of the convulsions stopped. He stood, brushed his hands together a few times for a job well done, and walked to the center of the stage, still not looking at the audience.

From his back pocket, Billy Joel pulled a piece of scrap paper from his back pocket and unfolded it calmly, silently whistling to himself. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a feather and small vial of black ink.

The crowd watch, enraptured, as Billy Joel uncorked the bottle and dipped in the tip of the feather. Looking back to the list he tapped the tip of the feather next to the title

"People who DIDN'T START THE FIRE."

Beneath the title were two list items written in jagged, gothic calligraphy. He crossed of the first...

"Reunion - Life is a Rock, But the Radio Rolled Me"

before dragging his pen down to the second...

"REM - It's the End of the World"

and tapped the tip of the quill next to it thoughtfully.

Quietly, he folded up the list and looked out over the crowd. Billy Joel cleared his throat.

"Which way is REM?"

The crowed looked up in confusion, then around at each other, then back up at the 4th best selling solo artist of all time who had replace his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and had crossed his arms impatiently

A woman who had been clutching her children to her sides used a shaky sleeve to wipe the caking vomit from her lip and questionably pointed out across the park, shrugging.

Billy Joel nodded, leapt from the stage and bounded like a gazelle on speed back through the crowd in the direction the woman had indicated. Before long, he had disappeared back through the corn maze, never again to be seen in Boise.

Life Is A Rock (But The Radio Rolled Me) by Reunion on Grooveshark

#Worst #Billy Joel #Billy Joel Lyrics #song lyrics #celebrity news #choking death #true story #song meaning #WTF #Reunion #We Didn't Start The Fire #Life Is a rock but the radio rolled me

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

Text

Billy Joel is Going to Have Sex With Your Wife

Phillip carried his giggling bride past the threshold of their honeymoon suite. Twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years he had waited for this moment! The teasing in high school, they staying away from parties in college, years of loneliness moving from city to city until he met Jamie. Wonderful Jamie. Eat shit, Stephen Lampkins form 10th grade physics class! Now who knows what a clitoris is?!

He kissed her desperately before laying her, softly, down on to the bed. She was the phrase incarnate of a blushing bride, but her rosy-cheeked reservations didn’t take long to fade away to reveal the smirk of a temptress. Phillip could feel his heart beating in his gut as he watched Jamie’s hands reach around to her back. The sound of that zipper might as well have been the grand finale of the biggest fireworks show you’ve ever seen, because it roared deafeningly victorious in Phillip’s ears.

When she came tumbling out of her dress, he almost couldn’t take it. His anxiety had him nearly vibrating with anticipation. Twenty-seven years of sexual potential energy was about to get kinetic up in this bitch.

Jamie squirmed atop the bed's red silk sheets, swimming among them with raw sensual grace. Her smooth skin stark against the crimson, her pink lips parting wantonly, her breasts…oh her breasts-

Phillip was ready. He fumbled mightily trying to undue the buttons down the front of his shirt, eventually giving up halfway through and pulling the thing over his head with off the ferocity of an NBA player jumping off the bench and discarding his warm ups. His flipped the latch of his belt and freed it from it’s loops with one mighty yank forceful enough to start even the most stubborn of lawn mowers on the first try.

He took stock of this sight one more time. Jamie, his wife-his beautiful wife-his whole world from now until his death. She slid on to her back and propped herself up on her elbows, biting at her lip. One lithe leg rose into the air, the toes aimed squarely at Phillips chest. Dangling from said toes was a pair of recently removed panties.

Phillip inhaled sharply as he hooked his thumbs inside the waist of his pants and boxers. Triumphantly, he took them both to the ground simultaneously. With the last relic of chastity lying in a pile around his ankles, Phillip stood.

And no sooner, not one fucking millisecond after he rose, two gnarly hands slapped down upon his shoulders and dug in to them like an eagle snaring a trout. Phillip let out a sharp shriek of pain and surprise, as he froze solid. His member, just moment ago ready and willing, deflated in a show of cowardice.

Billy Joel, the owner of those horrible, rocky hands, positioned his head next to Phillip's.

Unable to turn his torso in Billy Joel’s grip, Phillip cranked his head around in terror to try and get a hold of the situation. Billy Joel was smiling, wearing nothing but black sunglasses and a leather jacket that’s sleeves were tied around Billy Joel’s neck like a cape. Billy Joel spoke in a pointedly sing-song voice.

“She stands before you naked. You can see it. You can taste it.”

“Billy Joel?! The shit? What are you doing?!”

Phillip twisted in Billy Joel’s hands, but the great American singer/songwriter held him resolutely in place.

Phillip began to protest this affront to his manhood. This, what was supposed to be one of the shining moments of his life, was being impinged upon by this grossly underrated musician. Phillip raised his voice.

“What are you doing here, man?! Get the fuck out! How did you get in here?! Who let you in?! What the f-“

Phillip’s dissent was cut off at the feeling of something else gripping him. In addition to the two claws digging in to his trapezius muscles, suddenly, what felt like a thick cord of rope, like that use to tie ships to a dock, had wrapped around Phillips leg. He looked down, confused.

At the sight of Billy Joel’s independently sentient cock wrapping around his leg like a python and instantly turning the limb purple due to blood loss, Phillip was understandably a violent mixture of fear, confusion, and stabbing, morbid sorrow.

Tears began to stream from his eyes. Billy Joel’s hands snapped open like spring traps and his reptilian genitalia sympathetically unwound from Phillip’s thigh.

Phillip nearly toppled over, hobbled by his leg that was now completely asleep and just about worthless. It tingled painfully as he stumbled about, trying to regain his balance.

Emasculated and openly bawling, Phillip still admirably, but foolishly, refused to surrender this moment to Billy Joel. Phillip pathetically slapped at the singer’s chest and pushed at him, trying to steer him out the door.

Phillip, reverting to toddler-aged motor skills, wiped snot and tears from his runny nose and face in between flailing his arms like a baby who’s trying to signal to it’s mother that he has pooped his pants.

Billy Joel, leather-jacket cape and glasses, smiled at the broken man, obliging the newlywed’s feeble attempt to expel him from the room. Billy Joel backed up to the open door of the room and out in to the hallway. With one last giant sob, Phillip slammed the door shut.

Heaving, trying to catch his breath and regain his composure, Phillip rubbed his palms into his eyes to clear his vision of the tears. With one last gulp of air he regained some semblance of control over his emotions and opened his eyes.

He stared for a moment, quietly confused as to how HE was now standing naked in the hallway, staring at the closed door to his hotel suite. He blubbered, tears quickly welling back up in his eyes.

“Wha… what? What? Billy Joel?! What?! WHY? WHYYYY, Billy Joel?! WHY?!”

Phillip grasped the knob and twisted it to no avail. He slammed on the door until his weeping lessened the blows to pawing, and, finally, he just leaned against it, face pressed against the wood, naked, broken, and crying. He left a streak of tears against the oak as he slid down to the floor.

Through the wooden blockade, he could hear Billy Joel’s muted voice.

“It doesn’t matter How you worship… as long as you’re down on your knees.”

The next sound was the voice of his sweet, loving wife. His world. His soul mate. His love. She was giggling.

Peering with one eye through the crack between the door and the carpet, Phillip saw two pairs of feet turn in to two pairs of feet and a set of beautiful knees. Too weak to turn his head away from the crushing vision, what was left of Phillip was spared by a leather jacket flying against the door and falling to block his view.

Phillip’s heart shriveled. And that’s not a figure of speech. Inside his chest, behind what is supposed to be a protective cage of ribs, Phillip’s heart literally shrank down to a shriveled, pruney, saggy sack of muscle. Because Billy Joel attacks from the inside out and nothing can save you.

Phillip couldn’t form words. He couldn’t function. He couldn’t think of anything except the woman who was supposed to be his bride, locked away from him on the other side of the door. And at this, pain took over. Phillip moaned her name in agony, punctuated by interrupting heaves of tears.

“Jay-mieeeee, ughhhh, Jamie, wh- whyyyyy. Jamieeee…”

Until there was a sudden silence. The giggling stopped. Phillip held his breath, blood leaking from his ears due to the strain of listening.

There was a short scuffling sound that got closer and closer to the door.

Suddenly, the jacket that had blinded him was yanked from the ground revealing two hobbit-like feet standing just on the other side. A piece of paper slid out from inside the room. Phillip placed a hand on it and dragged it to his face. Turing his head to view it, he saw a picture of Billy Joel, topless and sweating, winking at him. Written with a silver sharpie, there was text that read-

“To Fillip. My biggest fan – Billy Joel”

With no jacket to shield his eyes, Phillip watched the feet turn and return to the pair of knees that were waiting for him in the middle of the room. Jamie was lifted off the floor, and Phillip saw the bed rock as she was tossed on top of it. Soon, Billy Joel’s feet, too, disappeared on top of the bed.

The last thing Phillip saw before his heart collapsed like a neutron star into a black hole that crushed his entire body down to a singularity was the four large posts of the bed frame begin to sway rhythmically.

#Billy Joel #Worst #Light as the Breeze #true story #sex #cuckold #celebrity news #WTF #Billy Joel Lyrics #song meaning

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

Text

Billy Joel is a Terrifying Drug Dealer

Preston had looked everywhere. He stood in the middle of his living room with a perplexed look on his face holding bowl of meow mix. He rattled the contents and called out-

“Tiger? Come eat your food! Tiger?”

Preston scratched his head. He set the bowl on the floor and pressed his face against the carpet to get a good look under all the couches. He could see no sign of his cat, but he did see a quarter. Preston decided that he might as well get it, already being on the floor and all. Are gum balls still 25 cents?

He outreached his arm, groping for the single coin. His tongue stuck out, pressed against his upper lip in a show of effort. He could just feel it with his fingertips…

Two beeps from the motion sensor meant an open door. Forgoing his quest for pocket change, he got up off the floor to investigate. Preston brushed lint from the front of his shirt and peered in to the entranceway. Dressed in a engineer boots a leather jacket and tight blues jeans was a haggard-looking Billy Joel who, behind a pair of matte black sunglasses, just seemed to have painfully bloodshot eyes. Preston seemed caught off guard.

“Oh, uh, hey Billy Joel. Sorry, I- I didn’t know you were coming over.”

Billy Joel straightened up and stared at Preston. Or, at least Preston thought he was staring at him. It was hard to be 100% sure. The glasses and all…

And still, Billy Joel stared. Preston shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“So, uhhm… I don’t. Ah, I don’t really know how this works? Did you, uh, bring it? The, er, whatever. The stuff?”

Billy Joel’s leather-fingerless-gloved hand rose slowly to his chest as if he were submerged in a vat of corn syrup. He patted his chest twice over his jacket, indicating the pocket beneath.

“Oh, good. Cool, so, I have the money, like you asked, so… do I just… give it… to you?”

Billy Joel’s hand moved slowly from his chest, reaching out and turning his palm over to Preston. Only the sound of tight leather stretching across his hand and torso broke the silence.

Preston fumbled to his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a stack of bills, pre counted and paper clipped together. He handed the stack to Billy Joel.

Slowly, ever so slowly, almost as if he was submerged in a vat of corn syrup that had been further reduced over low heat so as to thicken the consistency even further, Billy Joel took the stack and began counting silently, thumbing through each crisp bill, seemingly just retrieved from an ATM.

Preston, growing increasingly uncomfortable and confused at Billy Joel’s movement speed and general demeanor, offered up some helpful information.

“$500. It’s all there, just like you asked.”

At this, Billy Joel’s hand slowly, SO FUCKING SLOWLY, clenched in to a fist, but said nothing. Just the sound of leather and paper.

His head tilted up and, again, Preston could only assume Billy Joel was staring at him. The chill of the presumed glare sent Preston’s testicles scrambling back to the warmth of his abdomen. Preston shrunk in to himself like a scolded dog and his throat dried up instantly. He could only get out a scratchy,

“Sorry…”

Emotionless, Billy Joel shoved the now-crumpled bills into his very tight blue jean pockets. Slowly. And again, the sound of leather featured as the only soundtrack to Billy Joel’s existence.

Billy Joel drifted closer to Preston as he made a move to reach inside of his jacket. From his pocket, he somehow retrieved a freezer-sized Ziploc bag of... red. Stuff?

Moving now at the speed of a normal human being, which seemed like light speed at this point, Billy Joel shoved the bag in to Preston’s chest. Preston recoiled and the bag fell to the ground, bursting open and oozing across the floor. Preston was horrified.

“What the fuck?! That’s not weed! What the fuck IS that?!” he screamed like a little bitch.

Billy Joel pounced like some sort of god-damn cheetah who had tracked and killed a water buffalo, skinned it, and made it’s hide in to a slim-fitting leather jacket. In the blink of an eye, Billy Joel had both leather-clad fists full of the front of Preston’s Polo, and had lifted him off the ground to the point where only the tips of Preston’s toes skimmed the tile of his foyer. He would have screamed again, but fear had put a vice around Preston’s throat and clamped it shut. All he could muster was a terrified sputter. Oh, and he also found it in within himself to piss his pants.

Billy Joel cocked his head, bird-like, and examined Preston, brow furrowed. He said,

“Captain Jack will get you high…”

Preston stammered and used his feeble hands to pathetically attempt to escape Billy Joel’s grasp.

“Wha- what the f-fuck is Captain Jack, man?! What the fuck? What is this, who are you?!”

Preston began to lose his shit, weeping tears of fear and the kind infinite confusion a man can’t really comprehend because he can’t possibly imagine knowing any less about one single thing.

One leather hand creaked as it released Preston’s shirt. A joyous smile parted Billy Joel’s lips as he used his now free hand to remove his glasses to reveal a pair of eyes that were SO open. So very wide open. Preston wept harder at the sudden realization that Billy Joel had probably been staring at him like this the entire time, and Preston just couldn’t handle fitting that additional piece of information in to the scenario that was currently taking place. And he pooped his pants.

Billy Joel extended his face towards Preston’s ear and, through some sort of black magic, looked to somehow produce more neck than a person should have, as his torso didn’t lean forward at all.

Their faces side by side, Billy Joel whispered,

“I put a bottle a Jack Daniels in to your blender...”

Preston’s weeping came to a whimper.

Billy Joel inhaled deeply through clenched teeth.

“…with your cat.”

Preston’s entire body went limp, it failed him in every way a body can fail a person. Billy Joel gently lowered this twitching mass to the floor, careful to lay Preston’s head next to the red mess slowly expanding across his floor.

Preston examined it. In the mush and the booze and the fur, it seemed to twinkle in the sunlight shining in through the window over head. With his last remaining shred of sanity he asked,

“What’s this shiny bit?”

Billy Joel inched Preston’s face closer to the blob as he answered. His skin created a loud squeeeeeek as it went.

“I said I put a bottle of Jack Daniels in your blender.”

Preston’s mind, broken and blank, couldn’t defend his stupid body as Billy Joel used his hand to begin shoveling the twisted mixture towards Preston’s mouth.

“Try some.”

#Billy Joel #Worst #WTF #story #true story #celebrity news #Captain Jack #for the love of god don't do this to an animal #lyrics #billy joel lyrics #song inspiration

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worstbillyjoel · 11 years

Text

Billy Joel Meets Paul Simon!

Billy Joel casually phased up through the floor of a studio apartment. In the middle of an otherwise empty room, a young-ish man/guy sat on a lone stool with a guitar perched on one knee, emanating melodies that sounded like an old tree. He was frumpishly dressed with a haircut that dangerously straddled the line between “disheveled” and “just regular bad.” He didn’t bother to look up at possibly America’s greatest story-telling singer/songwriter who had just dimensionally shifted into his living/bed room… /kitchen.

“Hello…” Paul Simon looked up at Billy Joel. “Prince of Darkness, my old friend.

Billy Joel proceeded wordlessly. Reaching unnaturally deep into his coat’s inner breast pocket. Without too much delay, he fished out what looked to be a rough-looking old playing card. Only this was no Bicycle. Instead, the reverse of it was a shiny, reflective blackness; something akin to obsidian. As Billy Joel bent at the knees, crouching down to place the card on the floor, it was revealed that the face of the card was nothing more than a picture of a mostly-nude demoness – her red bosom only covered by her mane of thick black hair; liquid and smoky like an oil fire on the surface of the ocean.

Billy Joel laid the card flat and straightened it out neatly before he returned, knees cracking along the way, to a standing position.

Paul Simon seemed resolutely blasé, if not a bit annoyed, when a red leathery hand burst from the face of the card, causing it to jump slightly off the ground. The hand clawed about furiously, digging trails in to the hardwood and creating neat little spiral shavings as it thrashed around the floor.

In less time than one would think it would take a hell-spawn to emerge from a playing card, a fully formed succubus stood staring into the side of Billy Joel’s face who, in turn was staring right in to Paul Simon’s eyes.

Billy Joel seemed unmoved as the Succubus clawed seductively at his clavicle - almost playfully destructive.

The Demoness watched ravenously as a bead of fresh blood rolled through the peaks and valleys of Billy Joel’s sinewy neck and, just before it disappeared beneath his too-many-buttons-undone shirt and stylish-at-the-time leather jacket, she lunged at it, her tongue tracing it’s path back up to the point of origin on Billy Joel’s collar bone. From there, she moved up his neck, to his ear, and then his lips.

The whole while, Billy Joel’s eyes remained locked coldly on Paul Simon’s.

Paul Simon began to think he would soon lose this staring game of chicken, as, currently, the nude, red-skinned, card woman was, for all intents and purposes, fucking Billy Joel through his clothes, right there in Paul Simon’s living/kitchen/bed room.

Right then, just before Paul Simon looked away, Billy Joel’s eyes snapped open wider than they ought to have been able to. It was as if they were closed before, and only now had they been truly opened. Billy Joel spoke out, but his voice boomed through Paul Simon’s head.

“SHE’LL CARELESSLY CUT YOU, AND LAUGH WHILE YOU’RE BLEEDING.”

Paul Simon squeezed his eyes closed and threw his hands up against his head, further mussing his hair and sending it officially in to “just regular bad” territory. The words echoed dissonantly around the inside of Paul Simon’s skull like someone had set off an air horn next to one ear, a car horn next to the other, all while standing inside of a ringing church bell.

…

When the noise finally stopped, Paul Simon weakly released his own head from his hands, leaving two sweaty palm-shaped depressions in his bad hair. His eyes creaked open like barn door that hadn’t been used in decades, and-

Oh shit, Oh Fuck! The Succubus is right in front of him! Fuck, run Paul Simon! Run! Get the hell OUT OF THERE! SHIT. FUCK. HOLY FUCK, RUN! RUN PAUL SIMON! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

Paul Simon’s body vibrated as if he was a crystal wine glass and a sloshy housewife was running her manicured nail around its rim. His vision tunneled down until he saw only her eyes. Her horrible fucking eyes! Red and black and full of fire and sorrow!

Paul Simon’s mouth hung agape with nothing but a wheezing moan of pure sadness escaping it. Paul Simon’s nose betrayed him, breathing in her sulfur breath, filling his lungs with her poison. Paul Simon’s hands abandoned him, choosing instead to evacuate the situation by repeatedly arpeggiating an A minor chord over and over and over and ov-

Paul Simon cried out in anguish and pain. The kind of wail that a person’s vocal cords can only emanate when they have their soul torn open – eviscerated by a red hot blade of pure misery. Tears of blood welled up in his eyes, “Why Billy Joel?! Why?!”

“Did Garfunkel send you?!”

And it was over.

Later that night, while Paul Simon vomited black tar into his stupid, art nouveau-inspired, clawfoot bathtub, Billy Joel was said to have been seen happily entertaining a small crowd during a surprise secret show in the Lower East Side.

#Billy Joel #Worst #Paul Simon #star sighting!#WTF #celebrity news #true story #She's Always a Woman #lyrics #billy joel lyrics #song inspiration

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