What Are Your Top 5 Crime Scene Albums?

You can tell a lot about a person by asking them which five albums they'd have with them on a desert island. For example, if they say something about how they won't have batteries, they're an asshole. Now, the problem I've always had with the Desert Island Albums question is that starts with me dying alone on an island. What do you care what I'll be listening to when terrible things happen to me? I think you should be more concerned about what albums I'll have with me when I do terrible things. That's why I've changed the question around: You've just murdered someone and you're allowed to drop five CDs. What Are Your Top 5 Crime Scene Albums? Here are mine:

"Oh, that's why his elbows and knees are snapped the wrong way."

This album is more at home at a crime scene than anywhere else. The universal reaction to it is disappointment that it's not that bad, but every moment of it seems to threaten the listener with death. First, it's exactly what serial killers would slow dance to. Second, whether Steven Seagal is making a joke, threatening your life or asking a shoe shiner to paint his widow's peak longer, he delivers every line like he's trying to dislodge a cigarette from his throat. His gravelly voice would be very at home whispering, "I've bitten the hands off your baby" into a telephone and he sings the same way, performing love songs like a sarcastic murderer.

Steven Seagal has made three movies a month for 30 years, and during that time, he's torn off more arms than a McDonald's packing plant. So I can't really take him seriously when he's singing about my beautiful smile and how I smell when we dance close. It feels like a karate trap... like under this phony romantic surface there's a bomb waiting to go off on my groin and joints. At the risk of giving Nazi scientists any ideas, Steven Seagal is a calm human face glued to a gorilla that's swallowed a condom full of bees.

Maybe it's only my imagination, but in the background of all of Steven Seagal's songs I swear I hear paramedics. My theory is that he forgets which job he's at sometimes and jams a pair of scissors into the bass player. For Steven Seagal, killing the bass player is a "blooper." He is Above The Law.

Besides constantly projecting imminent danger, a lifetime of making grumpy faces has atrophied Steven Seagal's lips. They still work fine for growling out slow songs, but if he has to sing more than 5 words in a minute, it is drunken language soup. His song "Dance" sounds like foreign people spitting words into a toilet. My roommate's ass enunciates better after a hangover and Indian food. At first, I didn't even think the track called "Dance" was a song. I thought it was a recording of a panicked 911 call Steven Seagal made from a sitar store during his fourth bottle of scotch.

"One day, this victim and the Hulkster will tag up again, in Heaven."

According to Hulk Hogan's autobiography, which I personally read twice for Hulkamania-related reasons, this album was inspired by the passing of a young Hulk Hogan fan. Hulk was so moved by the boy's death that he and Jimmy "Mouth of the South" Hart wrote the song, "Hulkster in Heaven." The lyrics are an impossible mix of tragedy and hilarity. You'll feel torn between emotions like someone watching Bill Murray kill his or her family with a pie cannon. In one line Hulk Hogan sincerely tells the fallen Hulkamaniac, "I used to tear my shirt, but now you've torn my heart." I think even the kid's funeral director snickered at that. This song is less appropriate than a whoopee cushion in a rape kit. If your doctor tried to explain the side effects of your chemotherapy with only a bike horn and an inflatable sheep, it would have more respect for human mortality than this.

Later in the song, the Hulkster tells the dead boy, "When the Hulkster comes to Heaven... we'll tag up again!" which gives me hope that the afterlife is a constant battle against the spirits of sick little boys and 300-pound steroid abusers. That's a Valhalla for every age group and skill level! Not all the songs are about death and cancer, though. Some are more tragic like "Beach Patrol," which seems to be about Hulk Hogan sneaking up on bikini girls and showing them his boner. And even in his own lyrics, they don't seem to like it.

Maybe to make up for his songs about mocking cancer and stalking girls on the beach, the other tracks on the album are all PSAs. "I Wanna Be a Hulkamaniac," is a rap that reminds citizens about the importance of swimming safety and milk. The rock anthem "Hulkster's In The House" has a much more serious message: Hulk Hogan is in your house. Throughout Hulk Rules, The Hulkster raps and sings and rocks with genuine enthusiasm... and yet by the end of each song, he's clumsily mangled each genre into something beyond recognition. Which isn't surprising since it's the same thing that happens when The Hulkster tries to put a baby in a car seat.

"Well, at least we won't find any semen here."

In 2005, on an episode of Trading Spouses, a New Age family swapped mothers with a Christian one. Through comical circumstances, the mother of the Christian family was actually a screaming bean bag sent by God Himself to angrily flop around when it encountered the occult. You've probably seen it. What you might not have seen is that a year later she made an album. A musical album. Because what else are you going to do with a half-ton farm animal that can't pull a plow?

They seem to have run into a few problems when recording Marguerite's album. First, this fat thing sounds like a porcupine coming out of a human surrogate. Second, most music studios don't have the septic systems capable of supporting her feces output, even the facility where Wilson Phillips recorded Wilson Phillips. Third, she was famous for throwing a tantrum on a reality show. That's fame that lasts exactly eight hours into the following workday, and maybe less if somebody fell down really hard on YouTube that morning.

Picture for a moment that you're the musician hired for this project. You never quite made it as an artist and here's this bullshit, thankless rush job to squeeze any available money out of a shrieking pork storage that no one has thought about for months. What kind of song do you make? Just right off the top of your head, picture it.

This is exactly what you pictured. It's a rap about Marguerite's tirade overlayed with audio samples of Marguerite shouting crazy shit. This sloppy Christian idiot thought the only thing keeping her temper tantrums from being profitable was Beat #3 on a Casio Keyboard and bad rap. She was wrong. Her album barely sold enough copies to qualify as a real integer. She lost so much money on this nonsense that her local grocery store now has canned frosting after she leaves.

You can listen to samples from her hit album here. It also features a press release so ridiculously over-the-top that you'd swear her agent is trying to talk her into letting him milk her. Watch how the bullshit gushes from this guy's keyboard:

The album notes make it sound like having Omega Class diabetes and violent emotional breakdowns should inspire children around the world. And I swear I didn't add that link at the end that lets the viewer "Read less..." That was simply a gift from the Comedy God to show He's more powerful than Marguerite's God of Intolerance & Obesity.

"Looks like this hug went way too far."

People talk about how groundbreaking Lady Gaga is, but she wasn't the first singer with mental disabilities. Chris Burke, or "Corky" from Life Goes On put out an album way back in 1994. It's inspirational, fun, and leaving it near a murder scene is a great way to make it look like an accident.

The album is sort of children's music. Except that most children's music is usually based on something; their songs are about shapes or numbers or teaming up with Hulk Hogan in a post-cancer tag match in Heaven. This album is nonsense. The big hit, "Eating is Fun, Eating is Serious," makes so little sense to a non-retarded brain that you'll swear he's making fun of us. It's unrelatable. It's like a cat trying to explain the appeal of a shoelace to a human set to music. The following analogy has a high degree of difficulty, but to a properly chromosomed person, Singer With the Band is a window to another world--a world of pure happiness that senses you're there a moment before every face turns towards you and charges. You don't belong there.

Chris is totally lovable bordering on awesome, but he performs with two musicians named Joe and John DeMasi. Despite their faces, they have no learning disabilities. This is a relief to me as a writer because it's important I let you know that Joe and John are to music what Hitler farting is to music. They are the fruitiest fruit loops to ever chemically castrate themselves with their own brains' chemicals. They once hugged for so long that their denim shirts turned into a pair of pants. Joe and John DeMasi can't read because the words bounce too much while they're prancing. They suck so hard that if you ride an elevator with them you owe them 60 dollars for a blowjob, and they don't even know what that means. They only grew beards so they could carry chocolate milk while they clapped. And worst of all, they hog the microphone on this entire album. Corky hardly ever gets a line, and let's face it: If I wanted to hear two dicks without learning disabilities steal the spotlight during a special kid's song about swimming, I should be humanely disposed of, not catered to.

"Oh, shit. We're going to find a lot of semen here."

I usually warn women on the first date that Jan Terri is who I'm going to think about when we have sex. She's a singing, dancing tube of woman dough before you put it in the oven. With only 11 dollars and a Chicago train station she can make a music video in outer space. She wrote about goblins getting down before it was cool. She can make a video starring her and her brother erotic. Jan Terri songs are like Christmas for your ears and blue for your balls. Don't take this as a threat, but if I for some reason killed you and left her album on your body, the detectives would have her songs in their head so hard their only leads would be "Get Down Goblin," "Rock and Roll Santa" and a precinct full of erections. Jan Terri can fuck your face without even plugging in her guitar. She can lip synch so well you'll swear she's singing while she wins a pie eating contest, and a pie eating contest is always on her setlist. I think finding this album in human remains is the reason why coroners love their jobs.

So now you go. You've just committed a murder... what five albums do you leave?